


Prince Nothing

by Tatteredleaf



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alistair is a brat, Alrik is a sadist, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cullistair, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, I love angst, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Order of the Fiery Promise, Prince Alistair (Dragon Age), Prince Alistair grows up, Prince Alistair is a brat, Red Lyrium, Seekers of Truth, Sexy Times, Thedas' Version of the 1850's, lots of cussing, wanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-02-22 22:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23134783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tatteredleaf/pseuds/Tatteredleaf
Summary: As Templar trainees, Cullen gave Alistair something he needed like breathing. Nothing else--no one else--would ever compare.  But fate had other plans for them both, forcing them to take different paths, until the day the Maker himself brought them together again in the most unlikely of times, in the most unlikely of places.Fate, however, simply wasn't done with them yet.
Relationships: Alistair/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 42
Kudos: 37





	1. Two Boys, At Play

**Author's Note:**

> I must thank (and blame?) Aurlana for pulling me into the world of Cullistair - this story is the result of many silly talks about many silly things, and my keen desire to write a pure non-crossover fic romancing Alistair and Cullen (and without juggling 5 other POVS as I am in my other fic). The following prologue was initially a character study that I wrote to help me sort out their pasts before I ripped them apart but Aurlana suggested it might be a neat way to start the story that, initially, was only going to be a short little tale about Alistair starting a dog walking service (a sort-of homage to my wonderful dog walkers). 
> 
> Twenty outlined chapters later...here we are. 
> 
> Posting will be randomly regular as I am alternating with my other in-progress fic. Thank you for reading!

@)---‘--,---- Prologue ---‘--,----(@

The incident happened a few days before the tournament that irrevocably changed the course of Alistair’s life. 

The other boys in his dorm were always pranking the prince-bastard. He learned quickly to keep his valuables with him, and to check his bed before he lay down at night. He’d been short-sheeted more than once. 

Then, the tournament was announced. It was rumored a Grey Warden would be in attendance, possibly looking for recruits. _A way out._ Alistair knew he had one last chance to be free of the future others had planned for him. 

Alistair worked harder than ever before. The more he achieved in weapons practice the more the other boys--some older and bigger than he--fell to his skills. The more boys he beat, the worse they treated him. He ignored their jibes, their hatred--their jealousy--and focused on his goal. When he was pitted against his roommates, he let them win to save himself from getting harassed later. 

It didn’t always work. 

One night, after a particularly long and grueling day of practice, he came face to face with Broderick, an older, beefy boy with a florid face who was, in Alistair’s opinion, more troll than human. He was also clumsy, and accused Alistair of mocking him behind his back. Alistair never mocked anyone. He knew better. That didn’t stop Broderick from mocking _him._

“You think you can beat me? You think you’re better than everybody else. Well you’re not, and I’m gonna prove it. You’re nobody. You’re nothing. _Prince Nothing._ ” Broderick leered at him. 

Though there were others practicing, a crowd gathered around their circle. Hoping to see Prince Nothing fall, he assumed. Alistair tightened his grip on his weapon. Then light flashed on Broderick’s wooden sword, and a glint caught Alistair’s eye. Broderick had embedded a sliver of metal up the side of his sword.

Alistair wasted no time.

Alistair was on the attack from the start, easily dodging Broderick’s wild swings. There was no grace to Broderick’s movements, and that was, Alistair decided later, the only reason Broderick was able to sweep up with his sword and slice across Alistair’s left arm. The crowd gasped as blood poured from the wound but if anything, the hot blood fueled Alistair further. Never had he felt more satisfied than when Broderick’s eyes widened as Alistair whirled around, and smacked him on the head, hard, knocking him down.

No, more like Broderick crumpled, eyes rolling back in his head as he sank to his knees and fell onto his face with surprising grace. One of the younger boys screamed.

Only then did the Templars come roaring in; Alistair was hauled back, the grips on his arms excruciating. There was yelling, screaming at him, one of the Templars in his face but Alistair just stood there, his arm dripping blood. It wasn’t until one of the other Templars picked up Broderick’s weapon, and saw the metal, that things were sorted. Broderick was taken to the infirmary, as was Alistair. His injuries were quickly healed; Broderick, Alistair later learned, was released from Templar training, and sent back home.

Broderick had friends. 

That night, one of Broderick’s fellow rats filled Alistair’s bed with cow piss, so when he stumbled into his shared room, still aching and angry and frustrated, his bed was soaked, the bedding ruined. The smell warned him but it was close. The boys had hoped for Prince Nothing to cry but Alistair did not. 

Alistair firmed his resolve. He didn’t belong here. The Templar life was _not_ for him. 

One of the older lads, Hansen, a Free Marchers boy, didn’t think it was funny, either. 

“Come with me. You’ll stay in my room. No one will mess with you there.” Then he smiled at Alistair, but in such a way that Alistair wondered if he were making a mistake. Still, it was late, he had no choice. Either go with Hansen, or sleep with the dogs.

Not that he hadn’t done so before.

Numb and humiliated but chin held high, Alistair followed the older boy, meeting his roommates--a wiry boy named Jensli with jet black hair and the bluest eyes Alistair had ever seen, and a Fereldan boy with golden eyes who smiled shyly when Alistair shook his hand. 

The Fereldan was one Alistair had seen around here and there; Cullen Rutherford. Rutherford was a bit younger than the others, but a powerhouse at seventeen, skilled with the blade and his studies, and devout to boot. He also blushed mightily when Hansen told Cullen to share his bed with Alistair. 

“It’s only for a couple nights, Rutherford. Hopefully he doesn’t snore.” Hansen threw Alistair a nightshirt. 

They changed quickly, eyes on the floor, and went to bed, Rutherford climbing in first. Rutherford didn’t say much, covered himself up to the chin, but just as they were going to sleep, he asked Alistair, “Are you all right? That was mean, what they did to you. I’m sorry.” 

Alistair was touched, needless to say. He thought about joking it off, as he usually did when people were nice to him, but all he could say was, “Thanks. I’m fine.”

He wasn’t though. Not at all. 

“They envy you, you know.” Rutherford turned on his side and faced Alistair, one hand under his cheek. “Weaponry comes so naturally to you. We’re taught something new and where it takes the rest of us all day you get it in just three tries. I like watching you.”

Alistair stared at the ceiling, unsure what to say. Rutherford watched him? He’d never seen him. Had barely been aware of him before today. “I’m not trying to be better than everyone else.”

“I know. You just are.” 

The urge to face Rutherford was so strong his heart did little flips at the thought. He yawned, trying to hide his confused embarrassment. “Guess we better go to sleep.”

“Good night.”

“Good night, Rutherford.” 

“You can call me Cullen. When we’re alone. It's alright.”

Silence descended, but Alistair found himself saying, “Goodnight, Cullen. Thank you.”

Throughout the next day, Alistair couldn’t stop looking at Rutherford. _Cullen._ The younger boy was suddenly everywhere, and what Alistair saw impressed him. How could someone so handsome, so sweet and genuine, be so fierce with the sword? Alistair doubted it took Cullen all day to learn anything. He was a natural.

Every time he looked at Cullen, and Cullen caught him looking, the boy blushed deeper than a sunburned nug. But he smiled, too, as he dipped his head. It stirred something inside Alistair he wasn’t ready to acknowledge; not yet, at least. 

Boys sometimes messed around with other boys. Alistair knew that. There were several couples in his dorm, one or two rather randy ones who got chastised for their unseemly behavior, but Alistair never thought that he’d be one to look at another boy how he did Cullen. It was weird, and made him fluttery. And, sad too--Cullen wanted nothing more than to be a Templar, and he, Alistair, had every intention of running away forever before he could be forced to become one. 

In his fantasies, Cullen would go with him. 

What Alistair didn’t expect to learn that third night curled up next to Cullen, was that Hensen and Jensli sometimes shared a bed too. Alistair couldn’t sleep; he was too aware of Cullen behind him, snoring softly, his body warm and tucked against Alistair’s back. Alistair’s cock was quite interested. His pulse beat loudly in his head, and it was all he could do to lay still. 

The desire to wank was growing really difficult to ignore. Then, Jensli slid out of his bed, and into Hensen’s. Alistair watched in the dim light--watched in wonder--as Jensli pulled off his clothes, his slim erect cock popping from his smalls. Alistair flushed at that. Hensen pushed the covers down, and Jensli climbed on top. The bigger boy rubbed something on his own erection, and the sounds Jensli made as Hensen eased into him--first his fingers, then his cock--nearly undid Alistair. 

It was the first time he’d ever in his life seen two boys fuck. He’d had no idea this was possible. His cock ached with want, and he desperately wanted to know what it felt like to be inside another boy. It didn’t even gross him out any, which kind of surprised him; he’d always thought sex with a girl was...weird. 

Jensli moved slowly up and down on Hensen, panting softly, bending over to kiss his lover, their fingers twining and untwining. Then Hensen pulled Jensli off him and laughing--he didn’t even try to be quiet--traded places with Jensli and pushed him practically in half, legs over his head and exposing him--Alistair stared--cradling his much smaller body with unexpected tenderness before entering him again. 

“You’re mine, Jensli, _mine._ ”

Jensli’s reply was naught but a whisper. “Yes, I am yours.”

Despite the dim light--only the moon shining through the window--Alistair could see it all. He was dumbfounded, truly, his cock ached as he shivered in wonder. Alistair wanted to be Hensen, right then, but… but as he watched Hensen with his powerful thrusts inside Jensli’s welcoming body, it was another boy Alistair wanted in that place.

Behind him, Cullen sighed in his sleep.

The sounds they made! There was _no way_ Cullen could sleep through that, but Cullen’s soft snores continued. A whimper escaped Alistair as he watched Hensen slam into his lover; it seemed to last forever. The sound of it, the slap when their skin met, the squelchy noises when Hensen pulled out and pushed back in again, drove Alistair mad. He had to squeeze himself to keep from coming right then. When Jensli came with a soft cry, Alistair had to bite his lip as Hensen stroked Jensli through it, his own breathing wild and hungry.

Then, as Hensen fairly split Jensli in two with one last thrust, his pleased groan slicing through the room, Jensli giggled. He turned his head to look right at Alistair. The boy’s grin was smug, and he gestured unmistakably at Alistair. _Over_ Alistair. 

Jensli knew Alistair watched them. Jensli knew what Alistair wanted. _And who._

Embarrassed, Alistair turned over in the bed; and found himself face to face with a startled Rutherford. Even in the scant light in the room, Alistair could see the other’s blushing; and that went straight to Alistair’s already-throbbing groin. 

He couldn’t look away; of its own volition, his hand reached out to touch Cullen’s flushed face. He could smell his own arousal, smell Cullen’s too. Cullen closed his eyes, his mouth opening, his breath quickening as Alistair touched him. Then, he leaned into Alistair’s touch, a soft whimper, a sigh of desire escaping his full lips. 

Alistair sucked in his breath. Cullen’s eyes shot open, shining in the dark. They were inches apart, both grasping their cocks beneath their nightshirts. On the other side of the room, Jensli lit a lamp. Alistair glanced over his shoulder, but Jensli just smiled and winked, then lay on top of Hensen who was already snoring. Jensli turned his head to the wall as he settled. Privacy given, such as it was. 

Alistair didn’t know what to do next. The shy smile that Cullen gave him, he _did_ know what to do with, and that, he hoped, would lead to other possibilities.

He smiled back, fingers grazing Cullen’s heated cheek, and whispered, somehow finding the words he wanted to say. “Let me see you.” 

Cullen did, sliding off his nightshirt, and pulling off his smalls before laying on his side again. The shy smile was back. Hopeful. 

"Beautiful,” Alistair said, taking Cullen’s nightclothes and smalls, and dropping them on the floor. He touched Cullen’s face again, trailing his finger down Cullen’s jaw, his breath quickening as he moved his hand to splay against Cullen’s chest, the other boy twitching beneath his hand. Cullen’s breathing matched his own, hitching as Alistair’s fingers trailed down his side, lighting at last on the tip of Cullen’s cock. Cullen sucked in his breath. “Onto your back.” Cullen obeyed. 

The others in the room were forgotten as Alistair sat up, and stared down in wonder at Cullen, naked before him. Naked, _for him._ Though the light was dim Alistair could see Cullen’s entire body flushed. Cullen’s wide gaze locked with Alistair’s. The trust in his eyes! No one had _ever_ looked at him like that. 

Cullen tugged on his nightshirt. Nodding, he yanked it off, then hurriedly shimmied off his smalls. His breath caught when Cullen’s gaze dropped to Alistair’s erect cock, already dripping with precome. His heart roaring, he couldn’t hear anything but Cullen’s excited, maybe a little anxious breathing. Alistair straddled Cullen’s thighs, then bent down and touched his lips to Cullen’s. Warm, soft, Cullen opened his mouth, his tongue touching Alistair’s with surprising confidence; had Cullen kissed someone before?

Cullen gasped, a soft, heady sound when their cocks rubbed together, followed by, “Alistair?” 

Alistair didn’t think. Thinking usually got him into trouble, though not-thinking also did, but for once he didn’t question a thing as he slid down on top of Cullen, skin touching fiery skin--that blush went truly everywhere!--as Alistair kissed Cullen again. 

Alistair parted Cullen’s legs, fitting perfectly between them. Alistair’s heart pounded so hard he was certain the sound of it must fill the room. They both groaned when Alistair settled his weight on top of Cullen, aligning hot flesh against hot flesh. They fell then, into a rhythm that is old as time, and was as natural to them both as breathing. 

It was so _right._

The feel of the other boy’s muscles playing beneath his hands as Cullen moved with him, how his strong legs grasped Alistair to hold him in place, how Cullen’s hands clutched his back, then slid down to his backside to hold on as Alistair ground into him, entranced Alistair. The sounds he made, too; soft gasps, escaped cries, the wonder in Cullen’s voice as Alistair pleasured him. It didn’t seem to matter Alistair had no idea what he was doing; Cullen’s smile was all he needed to know he was doing something right. 

He ran one hand up Cullen’s side, marveling at the chilled texture of his skin where it played over his muscles and ribs. Softness and strength. Cullen whimpered, arching his back as Alistair thrust his cock against Cullen’s, their balls coming together in such a way that Alistair groaned, aching, wanting _more._ It was awkward, he didn’t know what he was doing, it even hurt a little but it was also absolutely glorious making Cullen squirm beneath him. 

_Because of me._

Alistair reached between them, grasping both cocks in his hand, slick and wet and hot; when he did so, Cullen reached up and grasped the headboard bars and opened his legs wide as he gave himself up to Alistair. The wanton submission Cullen gave him was something Alistair knew he needed like breathing. Nothing else-- _no one_ else--would ever compare to this. To Cullen, opening himself up to him.

The sounds Cullen made! The look on his face, the wonder in Cullen’s eyes as Alistair pleasured him; Alistair was certain he was on fire. Their lips met again and again, and Alistair--who had never kissed anyone before--kissed Cullen now with crazed fervor, exploring Cullen’s mouth, pulling at his lips with his teeth, staking his claim there as he was Cullen’s body. 

He was mighty, he was a warrior. He was conquering ground he never knew he wanted to possess until now. 

Tomorrow was the tournament, and he would be so powerful! Everything would fall before him. He was sure of it. He was perfection itself, the master of Cullen’s body; the way the other boy responded to him gave him feelings he’d never felt for another. Protectiveness, aching desire to control him, and yet to please Cullen, too. To make him smile that shy smile. _For me._

It was all over quickly--too quickly. Cullen came first, anxious and twisting, saying Alistair’s name as he spilled over Alistair’s hand. He captured Cullen’s mouth with his own, his hunger unleashing the desire to pound into Cullen but he didn’t know how to do that--but he would learn. Cullen would bend for him, like Jensli did for Hensen. 

“Grab me.” Alistair pushed up so Cullen could do what he said. Cullen’s hand wrapped around Alistair’s cock, fingers strong and calloused, stroking Alistair’s arms trembled, until the heat became flame. Together they watched as come shot over Cullen’s stomach; Cullen looked anxious as he smiled up at Alistair as he bit his lip to keep from crying out. He could practically hear Cullen’s thoughts: _was that good?_ He nodded, and Cullen’s smile widened.

He collapsed on top of Cullen; behind them, Jensli clapped. Cullen yelped but Alistair held him down, kissing him, reassuring him until Cullen’s anxiousness faded. Alistair rolled over, taking Cullen with him; unlike Jensli, Cullen was bulky, solid muscle from his hard sword work. It wasn’t easy to move him but the feel of his weight on Alistair was perfect, the way their bodies entwined perfection itself. 

When Cullen sighed, and tucked his head under Alistair’s chin, their fingers met on Alistair’s chest and entwined.

Alistair thought for certain he would explode, right then. _Is this love?_ He didn’t know, but he knew Cullen was special. As they drifted off, he kissed Cullen’s head, nuzzling the curls, and whispered as he’d heard Hensen whisper to Jensli, “You’re mine.” 

Cullen’s answering nod made Alistair’s heart stutter.

The next day when Alistair woke, Cullen wasn’t there. The room was empty. He looked for Cullen at breakfast, but was told he’d already been and gone. The tournament began, and Cullen was all but forgotten as Alistair fought like his life depended on it. Perhaps it did.

And then everything changed, and suddenly he was taken away by Duncan, into the mystical world of the Grey Wardens, and the long battle against the Blight began. Once it was over, and Alistair was swooped into change once more and the months rolled into years he thought often about that boy. _His first love._ He hoped Rutherford found what he wanted out of his life.

Alistair--Prince Nothing--had not. 

Then one day he chanced to walk into his favorite cheese shop in Harper’s Ford and his life changed irrevocably once more. The boy he thought he’d never see again-- _his Cullen_ \--stood behind the counter, a wedge of cheese in his hand, the shock in his eyes mirroring Alistair’s own.


	2. The Agreement is Forged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Alistair is not content. Endless meetings, obligations and swooning women--not to mention a very grumpy King--all serve to make him restless, irritable, and desperately unhappy. He never wanted to be his brother's heir, but here he was, stuck in a palace, weighed down by endless expectations, kept from doing anything and everything that he wants to do. Not that he knows what he wants; the Blight is over, his brother the King will not let him be a Grey Warden anymore, and he hasn't seen his friends Leliana and Lana--his beloved Hero of Ferelden--in simply forever. But when an argument with the King gives him the chance at perhaps permanent respite--if he can prove himself--he takes it and runs as fast as he can with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very deep and heartfelt thank you to Aurlana for allowing her absolutely fabulous Hero of Ferelden, Lana Surana--and for that matter her Leliana--to be part of my Alistair's world. I can't, quite frankly, imagine Alistair without his BFF4ever. If you haven't read her Cocktails & Cheese universe stories, I can't recommend them enough. 
> 
> *Note 1 - Alistair is Cailan's heir because he and Anora had several miscarriages. I don't want anyone to be blind-sided by this so please be aware I made this choice for this story. FWIW, Cailan and Anora are deeply in love. 
> 
> Note 2 - When I learned a possible fate for Alistair in DAO was for him to become a useless drunk, I was almost as sad as I was when I learned Cullen's possible fate in DAI. I knew I had to fix this! So, please do assume this is that Alistair.

@)---‘--,----

Alistair fixed his gaze on the tapestried canopy above him, the rich swirls of crimson and gold (oh so Fereldan) blending together the longer he stared. Or, maybe it was the half bottle of Antivan brandy he’d drunk that caused the strange phenomenon. 

He sighed as he shifted amongst the massive bed’s thick pillows, and wiped the sweat from his brow before letting out a groan as tonight’s whore finished him off. 

_It’s never enough. It’s never...right._

The brandy certainly hadn’t helped. It wouldn’t help him later, either; he was expected to perform his princely duty, again--in less than an hour--and oh how he wished he could sink into this ridiculous bed with the rest of the brandy and his whore, and ignore it all.

He couldn’t, of course. His Royal Highness, Prince Alistair Theirin, Heir to the Throne of Ferelden was expected to greet the King’s guests in the main drawing room at half past six. 

Alistair groaned, rubbing his hands over his heated face. 

He wasn’t even a real prince. He was a half-prince, given he didn’t know who his mother was. A maybe-prince, the maybe-heir to his half-brother, King Cailan, who thus far had failed to produce an heir of his own. Things didn’t look good for his brother’s success, either, not after almost ten years of trying, and Alistair doubted it was the Queen’s fault. (He really didn’t want to think about his brother’s reproductive capabilities at this moment, however.) 

Against his wishes, he’d got himself yanked from a perfectly fine, albeit unexciting life in Kirkwall as a former hero--all the free liquor and more, yeah--dragged back to Denerim, thrown into poncy clothes and shoved onto the dais next to the Queen. 

Alistair sighed.

How had his life come to this?

 _Why_ had his life come to this?

Shit, he was drunk. He needed to get drunker. _Where was that bottle?_ His fumbling hand found it; he leaned up on his elbow, took a deep swig, relishing the burn down his throat and into his belly. Still holding the bottle, he fell back amongst the pillows, shifting the whore still riding his cock, his thoughts drifting back to the comedy that was his life.

He was no prince. He didn’t want to be a prince, much less a maybe-king. He was a Warden, no matter that his brother had forbidden him to do Warden stuff anymore. Much as Alistair wanted to, one didn’t disobey the King. 

He wasn’t just _any_ Warden, either. He was _Alistair the Warden_ , the best friend and best fellow Warden, yeah, of the best Warden ever, Lana Surana. The Hero of Ferelden herself. 

His eyes burned. He missed her so much. Missed _mattering._

They’d done such amazing things, really awesome things, together. Maker, they’d ended the Blight together! Slayed an Archdemon in the process! So many really terrific heroicy things. All in the past, now. 

He missed Lana. He missed her honesty, the way she could help him see through his worries to find the good and corral the bad, and how she just knew how to make every day better. _Like magic._

She’d made him a better person, at least for a while. Shame made his face heat more than the whore did. 

But she and Leliana had their own lives to live, and deserved to find their happiness together without him hanging about like a lost puppy (though Lana gently chided him in her last letter for not coming to visit them yet, despite all his promises that he would). 

He missed Leliana, too, and perhaps even Zevran, and Sten. Could one miss Sten? He wasn’t sure but there was one thing he was sure of: he did not miss Morrigan. 

He most definitely missed his old life, where he was free to do what he wanted, when he wanted, and nobody cared. Before he was an acknowledged prince.

He winced as the whore on top of him shifted just this side of painful. 

“Oof, ouch, careful,” he gasped, grabbing the elf’s hip with his free hand. 

Said elf smiled shyly at him. “You were distracted. I thought perhaps you had forgotten you were still inside me, Your Highness.” (Alistair couldn’t remember this one’s name, even though this was the second, or maybe even third? time the whore had serviced him.) The whore flipped back his long dark hair, his pretty green eyes worried. “Shall I get off now, Your Highness?”

Alistair sighed, rolled his hips a few more times for good measure--which the elf took without expression--and nodded, smacking the elf lightly on his thigh. Though Alistair’s cock was finally, finally satisfied, he--as usual--was not. 

The elf started to pull off. “No, wait. Take this with you.” He held the empty bottle--huh, when had he drained that?--out to the elf. _The elf._ Alistair _knew_ his name… 

Lysanthir. That was it!

“As you wish, Your Highness. Shall I then draw your bath?”

“No Lysanthir. Just do what you usually do, after, well....for now.”

Lysanthir nodded, then balanced himself with his free hand as he pulled himself off Alistair’s cock. It plopped free, and Alistair hissed. He almost missed Lysanthir’s wince; no doubt _he_ was even more sore. How many times had they fucked? Three? Four? 

He’d definitely add several extra coins for Lysanthir’s pain and suffering. 

After putting the empty bottle aside, Lysanthir returned to Alistair with a warm damp cloth, and cleaned him up. Alistair closed his eyes as Lysanthir ministered to him; it was a thing all the whores did after, and it rather embarrassed him. Made him feel like a prize stud horse or something. Still, it was quickly and efficiently done. 

Lysanthir eased off the bed again to dispose of the cloth. Alistair watched him, the slim, lithe body beautiful to the eye but not what got Alistair’s heart thumping. Broad shoulders, strong, powerful legs, big hands were his thing--if he could say he had one--but such a man only appeared in his dreams. Male whores tended to be elves, who were easier to smuggle into the castle anyway. He made do, given his brother had forbidden him to visit the Pearl ever again.

 _Ever._

“Come here,” Alistair said, waggling his fingers. Lysanthir smiled (and it almost looked genuine) as he took Alistair’s hand, climbed back on the ridiculous bed, and slid up Alistair’s body. He pulled Lysanthir close, tucking his head under his chin, entwining their legs. So warm, so gentle, so ethereal.

So not enough. 

Lysanthir’s light fingers curled at Alistair’s neck. “What do you wish me to do, Your Highness?”

“Just hush, stay with me a little while longer,” Alistair whispered, running his fingers through Lysanthir’s silken hair. He had a few minutes to spare yet, before he must send the whore-- _Lysanthir_ \--away. “Pleasing a Warden isn’t easy,” he murmured into Lysanthir’s hair. “I’ll ask for you again, I think. Would you like that?”

Lysanthir lifted his head, pretty eyes luminous, the shy smile back. “If that is your pleasure, Your Highness. I would like that.”

 _His pleasure._ This was not it, not at all, but it was what he could have. He burrowed them both deeper into the pillows, the brandy making his mind fuzzy, the weight of Lysanthir on top of him--a living blanket--so soft and warm. 

He closed his eyes. That wasn’t his first mistake of the evening, and wouldn’t be his last. 

@)---‘--,----

 _“Alistair!_ ”

Alistair blinked. Or, tried to. His eyes felt gummy, as did his mouth--drunk. He’d got himself very drunk, last night, hadn’t he? Was it morning? Noon maybe? His head thumped despite being cradled in a quite soft pillow.

He loved pillows. _Especially_ when his head was about to explode.

“ALISTAIR!”

His eyes shot open. There was a heaviness across his body; said heaviness tensed when the third _ALISTAIR!_ whip-cracked through the room. 

“Oof, careful,” Alistair muttered as Lysanthir pushed off him and, it sounded like, fell on the floor. He raised his head to see, and then realized just who called his name.

Cailan.

“Shit.” He covered his eyes, but he couldn’t easily forget the way Cailan looked when he was super-fucking-angry. Like now. “What did I do this time?” 

“Get up, Alistair.” The voice was icy. “Pay your whore and get her-- fuck Alistair, really? A _boy?”_

Alistair slowly sat up, dangling his feet off the edge of the bed. Lysanthir, still quite naked, was on the floor, fully obeisant to the very annoyed-looking king. At least in front of a whore Cailan wouldn’t yell at him. 

Alistair rubbed his face hard, trying to wake up. “Don't act so surprised, dear brother.”

Cailan folded his arms over his chest. “I should be beyond surprised at anything you do, anymore. Get him out of here.”

Alistair sighed. He was, of course, also buck-naked, his cock half-hard and swinging as he walked over to the table where he kept his box of coins to pay his whores. 

“Have you no decency?”

“You’re in my bedroom,” Alistair pointed out, scratching his backside as he undid the lock. “Lysanthir, get up. The King isn’t here to yell at _you._ ” Cailan huffed at that. Alistair pulled two silvers out of the box, then a third, then slammed the box shut, wincing at the too-loud crack. 

“Forgive me,” Lysanthir started to say as he got up. 

“Nothing to forgive,” Alistair said softly, then handed him the coins. “Thank you.”

“Leave.”

That was Cailan, and Lysanthir’s eyes shot open. He bowed to Alistair, then to Cailan, then yelped at the breach in protocol--always bow to the King first--then grabbed his robes and ran from the room.

“You scared him, you know.”

“I told you before, no whores in the castle, Alistair.”

“When did you say that? You told me no going to the Pearl to fuck whores. You said nothing against bringing a whore here.”

Cailan made an irritated-Cailan sound. “If he’d been seen--”

“He’s an elf. No one pays attention to them, even here.” Alistair smirked to himself as Cailan averted his eyes. “What do you want, Cailan? It's morning, isn’t it? It’s Sunday. Surely I don't have any duties today--” Alistair fell silent, and stared at his brother. “Oh, fuck. Last night.”

Cailan’s eyes narrowed. “Exactly. Fucking is exactly what you were doing last night instead of what you were supposed to be doing, it appears.” He shifted his stance; though he wore no armor, just his morning robes--yup, it was morning--Cailan looked ready for battle. “Instead of attending to Empress Celine’s ladies in waiting as Anora could not, as you promised you would.”

“I forgot.”

Cailan’s face reddened. “Oh. Really. How? I am certain you were reminded. Multiple times. I depended on you to take care of those ladies, Alistair.”

“Let them fawn all over me, you mean? I told you before, I don't sleep with women. _Especially_ not three at once. No thanks.”

“Alistair!” 

“You _know_ I only fuck boys.” He folded his arms over his chest, the realization he mimicked his brother’s pose--save for the being naked part--hitting him a second later. 

“ENOUGH.” Cailan closed his eyes, his face turning an almost-alarming shade of purple. When he opened his eyes again, he was shaking his head. “What am I to do with you.”

Alistair really didn’t want to talk about this. His mouth felt stuffed with cotton, his temples pounded, his belly growled, the craving for a drink flared, and he seriously needed to take a piss. He walked over to his dresser, poured water out of the vase into the basin, then dunked his head in it. Anything his brother might be saying sounded garbled. He wondered how long he could hold his breath like this? That would solve a lot of his problems. Just drown himself, in a basin in his room. Neat and tidy, they could take him out under his hideous tapestry bed covers--

A hand grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head out of the basin. Alistair jerked back in shock, arms flailing. He hit his knee on the dresser which sent sizzling pain through to his toes, grabbed for something to stop him as his feet flew out from under him, and then promptly drenched himself by grabbing the basin. He tumbled to the ground with very undignified grace, hitting his rump hard on the one bit of stone floor _not_ covered by a carpet.

Dazed, he lay back on the floor, his legs and arms spread like he was making a snow angel. Naked snow angels. That would be cold.

Cailan stood at his feet, looking down at Alistair with such disappointment in eyes Alistair looked away, shame flushing through him. And of course, being naked, his brother no doubt knew it. 

“Alistair,” Cailan said, his voice soft now, but no less steely. His King voice, which he seldom directed at Alistair. “Get dressed. Be in my private quarters in fifteen minutes. Understood?”

“But I--”

“ _Shut. Up._ ”

Alistair snapped his mouth shut, and nodded. He closed his eyes in humiliation; he was _not_ a child. 

_Then why are you acting like one, Theirin?_

Alistair sat up as Cailan reached the door. He frowned as he watched his brother’s slow progress; then he paused, one hand on the door handle, before opening it and leaving Alistair alone. Cailan didn’t slam the door. 

This was not good.

@)---‘--,----

Alistair didn’t bother to bathe or shave--there wasn’t time anyway--and not feeling particularly princely, he pulled on a pair of riding breeches, boots, and a loose white shirt that appeared to be mostly clean. He didn’t bother to tuck it in. 

No telling how long Cailan would yell at him. After, he’d go riding for a while, or maybe even convince one of the drivers to let him drive his own damn automobile (yet another thing Cailan wouldn’t let him do--what use was it to be one of the few people in Denerim who owned an automobile, and yet not be allowed to drive it himself?). 

Outside Cailan’s quarters, the two guards nodded at him as he approached, one opening the door. He was, of course, a regular visit to his brother’s quarters, though the carefully-guarded look in the guard’s eye as he looked away from Alistair was a bit disconcerting. He hadn’t made time to bathe; he supposed he probably reeked of sex. He strode in, intent on enduring what he must. Cailan was not in the room. Only the dogs were present; Cailan’s three mabari.

His favorite, Brak, ambled up to him, snuffling his hand. He sighed, scritching behind the warhound’s ears, when a servant came in.

“Forgive me, your Highness. It’s time for the mabari to have their walk.”

Alistair huffed. “Wait. You _walk_ the King’s mabari?”

The servant nodded. “Yes, Sire. Three times a day, I take them on the grounds for exercise, now that the King cannot. May I?”

 _Now that Cailan can’t?_ Alistair nodded, bemused as the servant waved to the mabari to follow. The other two did immediately; Brak stopped, nuzzling Alistair’s hand before following after the others. Alistair had no idea his brother had got so lazy he didn’t exercise his own mabari any more. No wonder he’d put on weight.

Flinging himself on one of the chairs, Alistair prepared himself to wait. Another punishment, perhaps? He’d fully expected Cailan to be waiting with Anora, though she’d been ill the last few days. With what, he had no idea. Alistair picked at a bit of skin on his thumb; he truly did not smell pleasant, he realized, like stale liquor and sex and his pretty whore. His temples throbbed and he shifted in his seat, which grew more and more uncomfortable as time passed.

He was so very tired. He closed his eyes.

A door clicked shut. Alistair bolted upright, his heart racing as Cailan entered the room, thankfully alone. Alistair didn’t bother to get up; not a breach in protocol as here, in Cailan’s private quarters, it wasn’t required.

Everywhere else? Oh yes.

He watched, somewhat warily, as Cailan walked with measured steps to his desk chair. His brother stood in a shaft of light from the window; though gas lamps had been added to this room, Cailan still preferred natural light in his study. His face looked disturbingly-older than it should. Nearing forty, Cailan was almost an old man, Alistair thought, then pushed away the odd discomfort that thought brought. He was here to be chastised, after all. No sympathy for his keeper right now.

“When my wife, your Queen, and I lost our first child, we were both devastated as you can imagine.” Well, didn’t that punch Alistair in the gut. He hadn’t known. Cailan’s eyes glanced at him then away again. “It was during the Blight, soon after I recovered from the battle that should have killed me, had my dear father-in-law had his way. Anora was pregnant; I did not yet know. The healers said the stress was too much for her, but neither she nor I believe that. Anora is strong. The strongest woman I’ve ever known, other than our--my mother.”

And didn’t that hurt. Any retort died on Alistair’s lips.

“We lost our second child the day we learned the Hero of Ferelden earned her title.” He smiled briefly at that, but the sadness in his brother’s eyes made the guilt Alistair kept tamped away force its way out. “This time, the healers didn’t know why it happened. Said it was the Maker’s will, or it was the virus we all suffered from that winter, or some other such nonsense.” He paused. “The Maker has now made it clear that He does not seem to wish us to have children.” 

Alistair stood, his heart seizing. Anora was recovering from an illness-- But before he could say anything, the King was back, his face hardened. “After the Blight was over, and you were free of your duty to the Wardens, Anora and I decided it was imperative we find you. You made it...difficult. No one, even Lana and Leliana, knew where you were; they hadn’t heard from you in months. No one had.” Cailan walked around the desk to the side and sat on the edge. “We feared you dead. Where did you go?” He waved one hand. “Before we found you.”

Alistair moved away from his brother, his heart and head reeling from what Cailan said, and hadn’t. Anora. He liked the Queen, surprisingly. Now he truly felt like dirt for not doing what she could not. 

“I just needed to get away. From everyone.” He could almost hear the violins. Shame made his face heat. 

Cailan nodded as if not surprised by Alistair’s answer. “You were found in a run-down bar, drunk, a whore on his knees in front of you with your breeches missing. When I was told of your debauchery, I very nearly left you to it.”

“I wish you had.”

Cailan jerked his head up. “Do you? You’d be dead, Alistair. I saved you.”

Anger--and humiliation--bubbled up inside Alistair’s chest. “What if I didn’t want to be saved? I never wanted to be your bloody prince. Your fucking heir. I had plans. I was just--that wasn’t what I wanted. _This_ isn’t what I want, Cailan. I _never_ wanted it.” 

“And yet here you are.”

“Only until you finally--” He stopped there, fortunately. All the other times he’d flung his anger at Cailan rose up in his face now--hateful things about Cailan’s lack of virility. 

Alistair pretty much hated himself right now. 

So instead he fell silent, seething, fists clenched, heart clenched, stomach clenched lest he throw up on Cailan’s carpets. He did not feel well at all.

Cailan folded his arms over his chest. “Sit down before you fall down.” Alistair obeyed. “So, you’re telling me,” Cailan continued once Alistair settled, “that you _had plans._ That the weeks you’d spent wallowing in that shack, sleeping on mouldy hay in the barn, fucking any boy that would have you, was just temporary? _Alistair._ ”

Alistair’s ears burned. “I did have plans! I was just gearing up for it. Them.”

Cailan snorted. “Go on, tell me. What were you... _gearing up_ to do, little brother?”

Alistair hated _little brother_ almost as much as he hated being called Prince.

Just then the mabari returned from their walk, bounding into the room with their usual enthusiasm. Cailan greeted each in turn, smiling at them, and ruffling their ears. “Who's a good boy, Brak? Good girls, both of you. Did you have a good walk?” The servant bowed at the King, who waved him off. “Thank you, Olin.” The mabari quickly settled in front of the fire as Olin left, closing the door behind him.

“I was going to start a business,” Alistair blurted out. “I was on my way to see Lana. At Harper’s Ford.”

Cailan frowned. “What kind of business.” The words _what are you possibly qualified for_ hung unspoken between them.

“A dog walking business.” He gestured at the mabari. “Lots of people won’t--can’t--walk their dogs. The Royal Dog Walking Service would fill that need.” He hesitated. “I’d treat their dogs like nobles.”

Cailan stared at him, then threw back his head, _and laughed._

Alistair fumed. All good-will he was feeling toward his brother ended there. “What, you think I couldn’t do that? Anyone can walk dogs.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

Alistair clenched his fists. “I am not being ridiculous. Harper’s Ford is growing, full of young professionals and artists and...and people with pets. Lana said so. People who work but don't have servants still like having pets, and need people to take care of their pets. Lana thought it a grand idea.” Or she would, once he told her. 

“You don't know the first thing about running a business, Alistair.”

“Neither did Lana and she’s doing it.”

“A coffee house, if I’m not mistaken.” Cailan was still laughing at him.

“Yes, and she sells books and herbs.” And, was working to try to find a cure for the Taint, but though that made his heart flutter, his brother didn’t know about that aspect of the Wardens. He didn’t think.

“Half of new businesses fail in the first six months, you realize that don't you?”

“Mine wouldn’t fail.” He stiffened. “You think I would, don't you.”

“Alistair--”

But Alistair didn’t want to listen to Cailan. He rubbed his forehead; how it hurt, how tired he was of this. “No one ever believes in me.” He knew he sounded petulant but the more he thought about it, how _he could make this work_ , the more the noose tightened around his neck. 

He was sick and tired of this; the endless meetings that meant nothing, being forced to entertain nobles--who all saw him as a slab of meat and a means to gaining foothold in Court--despite his protestations he wasn’t interested. Would never be interested in them, in women, in anyone. 

Almost anyone.

“I hate this,” he said, all the anguish in his heart, in his very soul, wrenching forth. “I can’t do this, and be what you want. I’m no good at being a prince. Not like this.” He hung his head in defeat. It was no good. Especially now, knowing what he knew about Cailan and Anora’s loss. _Losses._ How had he not known? Why had no one said anything to him? 

_Why didn’t you ask?_

For a long moment Cailan remained silent. Alistair’s throat was too constricted, his anger dwindling to despair now. He hesitated, started to say _you win_ when Cailan cleared his throat.

“All right, Alistair. You win.”

He yanked his head up, confused. “Excuse me?”

Cailan sighed, ran his hand over his face. “I will free you of your obligation.” Alistair sucked in his breath; Cailan held his hand up, stopping him. “As I said, most businesses fail within the first six months. I’ll give you a year.” He stood, the King once more. “I will give you what you need to start your dog walking business, in Harper’s Ford, if that is what you wish.”

Alistair stared at his brother, so many thoughts--shock, awe, disbelief--ramming through him he could barely comprehend Cailan’s next words. “After that, you will get nothing further from me. At the end of the year, if you are successful, if you still wish it, I will release you permanently from your responsibilities of being my heir.”

“I… I don't know what to say.”

“I’m not done yet. If, however, you turn to me even once for help, you will agree, without hesitation or question, to come back to Denerim and accept your responsibilities as the heir to the throne. There will be no more fighting this, Alistair. Are you agreed?”

Cailan was giving him an out. Letting him go. With a caveat, yes, but Alistair couldn’t help the smile bubbling inside him. _He could do this! He could!_ With Lana’s help and guidance, and enough to get started...how hard could it possibly be to run a business? Everyone had pets! Not just dogs, but nugs--thinking of Lels--and he could maybe build a place to take care of them overnight, too! 

“Yes. _Yes._ I agree!”

Cailan, to Alistair’s surprise, smiled. “All right then. When will you go?”

“Uh today? Yes. I can take my automobile--”

But Cailan shook his head. “The roads between here and Harper’s Ford are not yet ready for automobiles. Besides, you don't even know how to drive it.”

“I would’ve learned if you’d ever let me.” At Cailan’s protest Alistair raised his hands. “Fine, no worries. I’ll take the train. Or walk.”

“Train. And Alistair, one last thing.”

“I’m not taking a bodyguard.” Then when Cailan again looked like he’d protest, Alistair said, softly, “I’m still a Grey Warden, Cailan. And a Templar. I’ll be fine. And I have dad’s sword.” He grinned. 

Cailan stood, then circled back to his chair and sat down at his desk. “Go then, Alistair. May Andraste watch over you. I have much to do today so I won’t see you off.” He pulled out a drawer, then pulled a velvet bag out, pushed it toward Alistair. “One thousand sovereigns.”

Alistair took it; he had another twenty-five or so in his room--whore money--and at least that many silvers. It wasn’t much, but it would be enough. It would have to be. He wouldn’t ask for even one more copper.

He bowed to his brother. “Thank you, Cailan. Tell Anora--” Cailan looked up at that. “Tell her I am sorry. Thank you.” Then he left his brother, patting Brak on his way out.

@)---‘--,----

Cailan stood at the window, and watched as Alistair, single bag on his shoulder and their father’s sword on his hip, walked across the courtyard to the gate. Worry creased his brow, but it wasn’t an unusual thing; his days were fraught with worry over the state of his country, the growing mage unrest--ever since Kinloch Hold fell--the ever-present rumblings from Orlais, the possible Conclave the Divine was considering, the growing, as-yet unnamed threat the Seeker who visited him that morning warned him about. 

And now, Alistair.

A dog walking service. He had no doubt that his brother made that up on the spot; and yet, he had to admit, the idea had merit, especially in the thriving commerce that was Harper’s Ford. 

He wanted, in his heart, for Alistair to succeed; but he feared it as well. It was a gamble, playing this particular game. One he could not lose. Not for pride; it didn’t matter any longer-- _he_ didn’t. His future was set, and it was a grim one. The ache in his leg had, at least, given him respite this morning. He hadn’t wanted Alistair to know. 

How his heart ached for his little brother. He understood. Alistair was not brought up like he was, and yet Alistair was--despite his protests, his oftimes bad behavior, his penchant for pretty boy whores--remarkably good with people. They naturally liked him, he was kind and fair, and not at all stupid, despite what errors he made in the past. 

Alistair was handsome, a hero, and cared deeply about others--possibly too deeply, at times. That he preferred the company of men didn’t truly matter; Cailan knew where Alistair’s son was though Alistair did not. The Theirin line would not die out. 

Someday, Alistair would make a great king. Cailan’s leg twinged, taking his breath away. He closed his eyes and waited for the brief flare of agony to lessen. 

_Someday._ Not _soon._

A knock broke into his thoughts. “Come in.”

The door opened; a guard let the whore in. “Lysanthir,” Cailan said, as the elf bowed smartly, far from the quivering whore he’d been that morning on Alistair’s tapestry rug. The elf was dressed now, not in his pretty robes, but in what he usually wore in the castle; brown and burgundy fighting leathers. He wore a blade at his hip, and his hair was neatly braided and hung down his back. All traces of the previous night were gone, save for a bruise on his neck. 

“As you were. Report.” 

“The Prince was quite morose and melancholy last night, lost in his thoughts a great deal of the time. He did not speak much. He fucked me four times, but was distracted throughout.”

Four times. _Wardens._ He eyed Lysanthir who remained as stoic as he always did when he presented his reports. “Did my healer take care of your needs?”

The elf’s smile was thin. “He did, Your Highness. Thank you.”

“What about his sleep?”

“Fitful. The Prince spoke of _him_ again in his sleep. And during the third time the Prince fucked me, the Prince cried out _his_ name. The final time the Prince fucked me, he took great care not to say anything at all.”

Cailan winced. “Thank you, Lysanthir. That will be all.”

“Your Highness…”

“What is it?”

The elf frowned. “I passed the Prince in the main hall--he appeared to be leaving. He had travel clothes on, his sword and shield, and the overnight bag he used as a Warden.”

“I am aware. He didn’t recognize you?”

“I am only a whore to him, Your Highness. He barely remembers my name.” His mouth quirked. “He is used to only seeing me naked with my hair down.”

Cailan grit his teeth. “That will be all, Lysanthir.”

Lysanthir bowed, and left him. Cailan returned to the window. Alistair was long gone. 

The door opened again. The sweet smell of lavender wafted in before her; he did not turn around. She came to him, sliding her arms around his waist, gently squeezing his belly. He was going soft since he could no longer train, but she actually seemed to prefer him this way. Cuddly, she claimed. He placed his hand over hers, lacing their fingers together. 

“Did we do the right thing, love?”

Anora sighed, then lay her head against his back. His affection for his remarkable wife filled him as she nodded. He turned then, taking her in his arms, careful not to squeeze her too tight. She, in turn, was careful not to brush against his aching leg.

Life was so fragile.

“I believe so, yes,” she said.

“It is a gamble. A serious one. I could lose him.”

She looked up at him, then touched him on the cheek with one finger. She was still too pale for his liking, her belly still swollen. His heart broke all over again. _Never again._

“We must have faith, my darling. This is a gamble, yes, but we may yet be surprised by your brother. He may yet surprise himself. Alistair is, to some eyes, spoiled and a brat, but--”

“He is not.” Cailan took in a deep breath, wincing against the pain. Here, with Anora, he didn’t have to hide it. “He has been through so much. Denied so much, and lost so much. I only wanted him to be happy but I think he is right; I ruined his life.”

“Cailan,” she snapped, voice stern. “Stop that. You did not ruin his life. We must not question the Maker’s will. He has, I suspect, always had certain plans for Alistair, and they weren’t for him to be a hero then die young. His life is worth far more than that.”

Cailan fought to keep back a smile. “If he knew he had you as his champion--”

She smacked him on the arm. “Don't you dare tell him.”

He chuckled, then kissed the top of her head. “I would never want him to lose his fear of you, wife. I sure haven’t.” He held her close, unable to hide his shudder. “We haven’t much time--”

She pulled back and lay her finger on his lips now. “Hush. We have time enough. Will you join me for breakfast?”

He glanced at his desk, his gaze drifting over the papers the Seeker slapped in front of him well before the sun rose, and made him read while she paced in front of him and his confused mabari. 

“Rutherford,” he whispered. _What storm gathers over you? And why does my brother call your name in his sleep? In his passion?_

Anora’s eyebrows furrowed. “Who?”

Cailan smiled, then kissed his wife, relishing the sweetness of her lips. How he loved her. “Nothing important. Work can wait. I do find myself ravenous, my Queen.” She started to pull away but he held her tight. “I love you, Anora.” If only Alistair could find such a love as he had. He was a lucky, lucky man. He only wished he had more years. He wanted nothing more in life than to grow old with his wife by his side, but this wish would not be fulfilled. 

She placed her hand on his cheek, her eyes soft with unshed tears. “Hush, stop thinking.” When he started to protest, she eyed him and he nodded obediently. “And I love you, my heart. Everything will be all right, Cailan. The Maker will keep Alistair safe. He watches over us all. Come now. I’m hungry, too.”

And that, to Cailan, was the best news he’d heard in many days. 

He let her pull him away; a chance breeze from the open window fluttered the papers on his desk, sending one to the floor. The top line read in a rather severe script, _Subject: Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford. The Gallows, Kirkwall._ Cailan paused, then ignored the paper and followed his queen to breakfast, closing the door behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so was born Alistair's Royal Dog Walking Service (We'll Treat Your Pet Like Royalty!)
> 
> The next chapter will be posted shortly - and then I'll settle down into a proper posting routine. I just can't stand having the chapters sitting there in my computer (and I'll keep picking at them instead of moving forward if I don't send them off into the world now).


	3. The Knight-Captain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford's world is fracturing once again. His Knight-Commander is behaving oddly, an inordinate number of mages are being made Tranquil, and insubordination in the ranks under his watch is rising. He is losing his tenuous grip on matters. A somewhat desperate attempt to get assistance seemingly backfires when a most unexpected, and unwanted, visitor appears in his office door. 
> 
> Then things really get bad.

Cullen sat at his desk, pencil in one hand, the latest list of mages who had failed their Harrowing spread flat before him. 

Maclin Clements

Georginna Withers

Nimue Wynyra

Three new Tranquil in one week. A sick feeling hit his stomach. He turned the page of the report. With a shout, he broke the pencil in two, rocketed to his feet, and kicked the chair back. 

The door flew open. “Knight-Captain?”

Cullen stared at the fourth name on the report’s second page, shaking his head in denial. “No. No, not her. Not--” He looked up at his Knight-Lieutenant, agape in the doorway. “ _ Shut the fucking door. _ ”

Rylen grabbed for the door handle and missed, finding it as Cullen turned away from that fourth name. “Sorry Ser-- I’ll just wait outside.”

Cullen whirled on his heel and snarled at his Knight-Lieutenant. “ _ Stay in here.” _

Rylen closed the door. With a roar, Cullen hurled the broken pencil then flung the report off his desk. He sucked in his breath, closing his eyes but he couldn’t unsee it. Would never unsee it.

Amberly Weston, Mia’s best friend’s daughter. 

Amberly, only seventeen if he remembered correctly. Had she reached eighteen, and he’d been too busy to notice? Quite possibly, given how...how things had been. He should’ve been watching over her. He should’ve  _ been there. _

A spirit mage with unusually-skilled control, she’d come later than some to Kirkwall as she’d gone undetected for so long. Outspoken, funny, caring, and brave, there wasn’t any reason to believe she wouldn’t be successful at her Harrowing. Wynne would’ve loved her; a true healer, with such promise. 

And now she was Tranquil. 

“This is _unacceptable._ This should _not_ have happened.” So many Tranquil, in such a short amount of time. “It is _wrong._ ” His impotence frustrated him. He should’ve stopped the problem long before now. 

_ Too late. _

And yet, he’d tried, hadn’t he? When Meredith pushed aside his concerns, he’d appealed to Divine Justinia herself. Something was seriously wrong in Kirkwall. Not just the abnormal amount of Tranquil; his Knight-Commander’s behavior concerned him as well. She’d grown suspicious, paranoid, trusting Templars a year ago she would not have. Her temper flared without warning. More than one Templar who displeased her ended up in a cell, deprived of lyrium, while others--guilty of much greater wrongs--were rewarded. 

He’d jeopardized much to get his appeal to the right hands. 

His risk had been for naught.

Rylen cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was gentle, as if talking to a wild beast. “Ser? What happened?”

Cullen began to pace, shaking his head, anger burning his eyes. “Tranquil,” he bit out, stopping to stare at his Knight-Lieutenant. “Who conducted the Harrowing last night?”

Rylen’s eyebrows shot up. “A Harrowing? There isn’t one scheduled until next week.” 

“One took place last night. I was not informed.”

“I--” Rylen schooled his expression, but not before Cullen saw his horror and disgust. “I did not know either.”

Cullen slammed his hands on his desk. “You are my Knight-Lieutenant, are you not? You report directly to me, do you not?”

Rylen stiffened. “Yes, ser.”

“Then if you did not know, you and I were kept deliberately ignorant.” He sighed. Rylen did not know--at least Cullen didn’t think he did--about Cullen’s other concerns. He had not told Rylen his thoughts concerning Meredith’s erratic behavior, how it was growing worse and worse. Voicing thoughts such as those were too dangerous--for Rylen. “Sixteen Tranquil, Rylen,” he said. “ _ Sixteen _ since Satinalia. This is not right.” His gaze pierced Rylen’s. “Do you agree? Am I wrong in my concerns?” he asked, keeping his voice soft. 

Rylen hesitated, then, shook his head. He looked back over his shoulder before returning his gaze to Cullen, then to Cullen’s hand. “Ser, you’re hurt.”

Cullen stared at his hand; the pencil stabbed him when he broke it. Blood dripped from the wound. He never felt it.

He fought for calm. Thank the Maker it’d been Rylen who’d come in, and not Meredith when he’d had his tantrum. 

Rylen handed Cullen a kerchief. “It’s clean, ser.”

Cullen huffed, then took it. Now he was aware of it, his palm started to throb, and blood flecked his desk. He wrapped the kerchief around his hand, fumbling to fasten it, hoping Rylen would not suspect the true source of his clumsiness. 

Without asking, Rylen came around the desk, and deftly rewrapped the kerchief. He did not suggest seeing a healer; that would lead to questions Cullen wasn’t interested in answering. That Rylen understood made Cullen appreciate his Knight-Lieutenant all the more.

He must speak to Meredith about the Harrowing; whether or not he disagreed vehemently with the results didn’t matter. The break in proper protocol did. He’d not been informed.

_ And what if Meredith knew I was left out?  _ He genuinely felt sick to his stomach at the thought. If she suspected what he was doing...

Rylen stooped down to pick up the report. He saw Rylen’s gaze lock on the names, saw the flash in his eyes before he put it on the desk. Cullen grimaced, but nodded his thanks. Cullen could feel the worry emanating from him. 

“I-- apologize for my behavior when you came in, Rylen. I should not have lost my temper, nor displayed it so...graphically.”

“Understandable, ser.”

“Nonetheless, I should not have.” He held up his bandaged hand. “All it got me was a sore palm. Little good that accomplishes. Where is the Knight-Commander? I have not yet seen her this morning.”

“She went to the Chantry. She said she had a meeting.”

Cullen rubbed his forehead with his unbandaged hand, then sat in his chair again. “I was not aware of any meeting with the Chantry; but then, I was not aware that any mages were being Harrowed last night, either.” 

“Ser, permission to speak--”

Cullen waved his hand wearily. “Granted.”

Rylen cleared his throat. “It’s about...about the Knight-Commander’s--”

A loud, forceful rap on the door cut Rylen short. The door handle turned. Rylen stepped back as the door flung open. 

Cullen half-stood, expecting it to be Meredith but he didn’t know the woman who strode in, cape swirling, expression grim, eyes darting first to Rylen--dismissed--before settling on Cullen. A Nevarran, she had short dark hair with a single braid wrapped around her crown, glittering eyes, a shield on her back and a sword at her side. 

She threw back her cloak. The symbol of the Seekers blazed on her armour.

“Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford?”

Cullen’s anger and confusion at the intrusion drained from him along with all the blood in his face. He stood the rest of the way. 

“I am he, yes.”

The Seeker said, “Dismiss your man.” To Rylen, she said, “Speak of this to no one.” Her threat was quite clear.

“Knight-Lieutenant, you are dismissed.”

Rylen’s eyebrows shot up as he recognized her armour. “Yes Knight-Captain. Seeker.” 

The Seeker’s gaze bore into Cullen’s, but to Rylen she said, “Guard the door. Let no one enter.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “Your Knight-Commander is detained. You need not be concerned she will interrupt.”

The Seeker did not wait for Rylen to answer. Once the door closed behind him, she pulled a thin package from within her cloak, and slapped it onto the desk. 

Cullen, of course, recognized the envelope. 

“You recognize this report.”

He cleared his throat. “I do. It is mine.”

“You do not deny it?”

“No.” He looked at her, at her glittering eyes, the harsh line of her jaw, the scar across her cheek. So. This was it then. A cold wash of--of fear passed through him. A Seeker had come--a Seeker had tracked him down despite his care not to be identified--and now she would haul him away, throw him behind bars, torment him to reveal why he accused his superior officer of the heinous things he’d described--

“I am Cassandra Pentaghast.” At his wince, the slightest of smirks lightened her expression but it was quickly erased. “You know what I am.”

“I am familiar with the Seekers.”

She gestured at his chair while she took another, and moved it in front of his desk. She sat, then huffed at him. 

He sat, stiffly; his gaze fell on the package, the half obscured mage report beneath. 

_ Amberly. _

Her eyebrow rose in query. “I am not here for you. Technically.”

He took a deep breath, acknowledging his relief--what Templar did not fear the Seekers? Every Templar knew when a Seeker appeared at a Circle, there would be trouble. Or worse. He’d instigated this, he reminded himself. She was here because of him, but not for him, it seemed. He worked to relax, but it was difficult. 

“Then how may I help you?”

She nodded at the half-hidden paper beneath the envelope. He pulled out the top papers and handed them to her. She took it, her gaze darting down the page, her expression neutral. “Four more,” she said softly, looking at him over the paper. “How many since you sent the initial report?”

“Seven.” 

She pushed her cloak back. It dawned on him she’d not come into the Gallows openly. She should’ve been stopped; would’ve been stopped if Rylen were stationed outside his door instead of inside the office. 

“Seeker, why are you here?”

“The Divine is concerned by your report. It took some time to reach the proper party; had you written it under your name, it would’ve reached us sooner.”

“I could not risk it.”

The Seeker waved her hand. “And those four might’ve been saved if you had,” she said shortly.

That… That was a smack in his face. He shifted in his chair. Looked at the bandage around his palm. “You are right, of course. I will regret this to the end of my days. I failed to act soon enough.” He absolutely despaired over telling Mia how he’d failed Amberly. “I couldn’t find another way. Believe me, no one is more sorry than I.”

She leaned forward. “The evidence you have supplied, while damning, and important, is not enough. We need more.”

_ More. _

His hopes that she would take care of Meredith now, today, plunged. “You want my help?”

“Want? You  _ will _ help, Knight-Captain. There is no question you will help.”

He’d known, of course, this might happen. The moment he sent that package, trusting Varric to get it to the right hands--he didn’t want to know how Varric did it--he knew it could come to this. 

Deep down inside him, lodged in a corner he scarce could acknowledge, the flicker of relief wavered.  _ Finally.  _ The constant struggle between honoring his duty as Knight-Captain, and his duty to the Templars--and the mages, perhaps especially the mages, and wasn’t that a laugh, coming from him?--caused him endless sleepless nights, and difficult days. 

The growing horror that was the Gallows forced him to question what role he had in enabling what was happening under Meredith’s command. Question why he was here at all.

Question the daily dose of lyrium, his leash.

This was not what he had wanted to happen, when he accepted the position as Knight-Captain. Working for Knight-Commander Meredith was an honor. She was well-respected, and had risen quickly to her current rank. He was excited to learn from her. Despite the events at Kinloch Hold, he truly believed that he could have an outstanding future with the Templars--

“Knight-Captain.” 

He looked up. Blinked. “I apologize.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It has been...difficult lately. What do you wish for me to do?”

“Are you familiar with the Order of Fiery Promise?”

He dropped his hand. “Vaguely.”

The Seeker stood. He started to rise but she held out her hand, stopping him.

“The Order has existed underground for decades. They are fanatics who believe mages are all who stand between the end of the world, and its glorious rebirth.” She made a sound of derision. “We have reason to believe Knight-Commander Meredith is involved with the Fiery Promise.”  _ That _ made him suck in his breath. She nodded at his reaction. “Peripherally, perhaps, but your report raises enough suspicion we cannot ignore. There has been a resurgence in Fiery Promise incidents, not just in the Free Marches, but in Denerim as well. The King of Ferelden is quite concerned.”

“What of Orlais?”

She snorted, lips curling. “Queen Celine is too caught up in her parties to concern herself over such matters. That’s what she pays others to handle.” 

Cullen almost smiled at that. 

“What of the rest of Thedas? You said Denerim--”

“Thus far, factions of the Order have been found only in the south, until now. Dumar is weak. Meredith has managed to get away with more than should be allowed.”

“You truly believe Meredith is involved with the Fiery Promise?”

“Yes.” She tapped his report. “The Fiery Promise believes mages--despite the Circles-- block their goals. All mages should be made Tranquil, if not sacrificed outright. Sixteen mages in Kirkwall alone, several past their Harrowings, in less than a year? If the Knight-Commander is involved, if she’s been corrupted by the Fiery Promise, she must be removed. The Divine requires more proof, Knight-Captain, before that can be done.”

His ire rose. He gestured at the papers. “Is that not enough? Are their ruined lives not enough?”

The Seeker leaned over the desk, her gaze fixed on him once more. “No. It is not. You are a Templar, Knight-Captain. Your sympathy for the mages is unusual. Do you believe they should be free?”

“I do not, no. But this?” His gaze fell on Amberly’s name again. Bright, funny, talented--very talented, and how they needed Healers like she would’ve been-- He rubbed his hand over his face. “I do not agree with the direction my Knight-Commander has chosen. No. Mages need to be protected, from themselves and from others, but not like this. Never like this.”

“You believe in Circles, then.”

“Never like this,” he repeated, then pushed back his chair, and stood. 

Cassandra Pentaghast was a Seeker. A Seeker who had come to him anonymously. He had no doubt she knew everything about him. Knew about...about Kinloch Hold, his anger toward all mages after. 

His--in truth--hatred of them.

Odd how coming to this place, the worst possible place he could be sent, had tempered that hatred. 

He peered through his window at the courtyard below where Templars maneuvered through the intricate fighting moves all Templars--including himself--practiced daily. It was a beautiful day, yet he could see no beauty in Kirkwall. It was a city of concrete and endless, ugly buildings. Even the most gilded failed to elicit his appreciation. Little had he expected how much uglier Kirkwall would prove to be behind those buildings’ walls.

“When I first got this assignment, I was not… Not my best. I was told to keep quiet, listen to Meredith, and learn all I could from her. This is what I did. I was fortunate to be given such a chance after…after Kinloch Hold.” He shook his head as one of the Templars misstepped, and his opponent swept him off his feet, then danced back, arms raised with victory.  _ That _ annoyed Cullen. The Templar took off his helmet; Ser Alrik, one of Meredith’s latest favorites. Cullen wasn’t surprised. “I was everything Meredith wanted as a Knight-Captain, I suppose.”

“What changed?”

Her voice was soft, encouraging, which admittedly surprised him. She was a Seeker, after all; her job was to ferret out the truth, no matter the cost to Templars like him. She had powers he couldn’t guess at; powers he feared. She could pull whatever she wanted out of him, yet she’d  _ asked.  _

He turned to her. “The daughter of a friend of my sister’s.” A sad smile escaped him. “She came here, to Kirkwall, in a roundabout fashion; she shouldn’t have ended up here but the Templars taking her to Kinloch Hold were attacked and killed by bandits. She managed to escape and ran for help at the nearby Chantry. A Kirkwall Templar happened to be visiting, and brought her here. My sister’s friend was very relieved Amberly would be under my care.”

“Amberly.”

“I failed her,” he said hoarsely, not hiding his despair. “I failed them all, the ones that would’ve passed.” He tapped the top name. “He had amazing command of Force, and was a brave boy. He should _ not _ have failed.”

“The other two?”

“I did not know them. But that is a failure too, is it not?” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, willing away the headache threatening. Those had been coming more and more often of late. “What do you want me to do? I can’t bring Amberly back, but I must stop _ her _ .” He didn’t have to say who--the Seeker nodded. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

“We need direct evidence that the Knight-Commander is involved with the Fiery Promise. Are you familiar with red lyrium, Knight-Captain?”

“Red lyrium?” Varric’s brother found some. It’d upset Varric, the effect on his brother, Bertrand.  _ Positively paranoid _ , Varric said. The dwarf had apparently gone so far as to trap Varric and his companion, Garrett Hawke, in the Deep Roads, to keep possession of it for himself. Cullen had meant to ask more about it, where Bertrand was now, but hadn’t yet had the chance.

The Seeker, however, took his silence to mean no. “The Promisers who have been terminated were each found with small amounts of red lyrium. It is dangerous, Knight-Captain. Highly dangerous. Consuming it has unknown effects; touching it repeatedly causes delusions, paranoia, insanity.”

He sucked in his breath at that. “Meredith has grown more and more unstable… but I don't see her joining a cult.”

“Perhaps not. She has her favorites, I assume?”

He laughed. “Not me, apparently.”

“No. Yet you are still her Knight-Captain, and in a unique position to unearth that which I cannot.”

“Can’t you demand she confess to you?”

“I could.” Her eyes glittered--he had a feeling she’d enjoy that. “But we need more than just putting her away. We need to be certain she and all involved in Kirkwall are brought down. The King of Ferelden is desperate to uncover those involved in the Order in his country, as well. Meredith may have connections to those plaguing Ferelden. And you, Knight-Captain Rutherford, will be our main witness should you--and we--prove successful.”

He froze at that. “She will kill me if I am discovered before she can be taken.”

“She might. You will, however, be removed by the Seekers before she is arrested.” 

“Removed?” His voice, equally low, was not soft at all. Anger, fury even, reverberated through him. “I will be made to appear as the offender?”

“You will then be taken to a safe place to await the trial.”

“Where.”

“That is not your concern.”

He snarled at that but she remained impassive. She didn’t care how he felt; only about the result. He must never forget that. 

“I will do my duty, Seeker.”

“Good.” She replaced the chair along the wall. “You will visit the Chantry weekly--”

“I already do.”

She nodded. “Then your actions will not be suspicious. Any evidence you find, you will leave behind Andraste’s statue. A sister will collect it. Do you trust your man outside?”

“I do.” 

“Do not tell him what you are doing, Knight-Captain. But do command him to stay close. We need you to stay alive.”

Then, the Seeker left.

* * *

Cullen held the brandy glass up and swirled it, his mind far from the drink in his hand. He sat alone in his quarters, his thoughts heavy. The task before him was daunting; how to prove that Meredith was--in fact--involved with the Fiery Promise? Thus far, he’d not seen any indication she might be anything other than going mad. 

Red lyrium. Where would she hide such a thing? 

He slammed the drink back, wincing at the burn as he swallowed, the fire in his belly. And welcomed it. He’d considered visiting Varric tonight at the Hanged Man, but he dared not risk it; anyone who associated with him from now on, until--and if--he found the evidence the Seeker wanted, could be in danger.

He’d started something by sending that anonymous information off, but he’d known that odds were his life would be forever altered by his actions.

At least  _ he _ ’d been allowed to make that choice.

The Tranquil had not.

As predicted, Meredith scoffed at his concerns about the new Tranquil. He’d considered not bringing it up to her, but knew she would’ve been suspicious had he not. 

_ “You’re too soft, Knight-Captain. Should I be concerned? I need you to do as I say, and not question what I do. Is that a problem?” _

Yes. Yes it was. But she expected--demanded--his obedience, so of course he acquiesced, and took his leave. He’d seen the way she watched him leave her office, the narrowed-eyed speculation. Perhaps she’d already grown suspicious of him. She was a smart woman. 

The coming weeks, perhaps even months, would be dangerous indeed.

Cullen stood, rinsed the glass and set it aside, then took off his uniform. Once he was undressed he turned out the lamp, and slid under the covers, shivering a little from both the cold sheets and the days to come. He turned on his side, back to the wall, and stared into the darkness; his life, always lonely, now would be even more isolated. He could talk to no one about what he must do. What he had done.

And why.

He closed his eyes, wishing he could somehow magically--he huffed at that--catapult himself to a year from now. This would all be over by then. Would he still be here? Knight-Commander, perhaps? 

Or would he be somewhere far from Kirkwall, living a completely new life alone, an ordinary man, simply trying to get through each day? 

He was a Templar, it was all he’d ever wanted, and to have that possibly taken from him was unimaginable. And yet, despite his achievements, his belief in the Maker and the rightness of what he did, he had to admit the reality of a Templar’s life was nothing like he’d imagined in his childhood fantasies. 

With a heavy sigh, Cullen pulled the blanket over himself, wishing, as he always did, that it was someone’s strong arm draped over him instead, pulling their body tight against his own, the scruff of their beard brushing his shoulders as they both fell asleep, hearts and breath in sync.

An impossible dream.


	4. Harper's Ford

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A coin for a Prince aka Alistair realizes there are some things he can't easily escape.

@)---‘--,---- ---‘--,----(@

By some miracle, Alistair remained unrecognized as he boarded the train. He walked through the first car, and to the second--for regular class passengers--and found a seat to himself, setting his shield on the planked flooring, his sword angled out of the way. He was back to being simply Alistair Theirin and it felt good. Would’ve been better if he’d worn his Warden armor, then he could be Alistair Theirin, Grey Warden, but his brother took away his armor, ordered it repaired, and put it on display in the showcase armory. 

Cailan’s way, Alistair thought bitterly, of enforcing that Alistair would never wear his Grey Warden armor again. Perhaps it was for the best--it’d only been two years since they’d put an end to the Blight, and all of Thedas was still recovering from that. No one wanted reminders. 

The train lurched into motion. Alistair had only ridden on the train a few times; Cailan loved trains, and pushed to lay rail all over Denerim, though it was slow going. So far, this line went straight up to Kirkwall, stopping at Harper’s Ford and Highever. Alistair preferred riding, but though he’d wanted to take one of the horses, he supposed it was smart not to. He would be walking dogs, after all, and wouldn’t have time for a horse. Maybe eventually. 

As the train picked up speed (and noise) his thoughts turned to his new adventure--how he would pull off a successful dog walking company. Ridiculous notion, he knew it. He was committed though--he would not fail. He _must_ not fail. He had a chance to be free, finally and truly, and he would not ruin it by being stupid. 

Guilt pushed its way into his mind--of course it did. He stared down at his hands--not near as calloused as they once were--clenching them as the train bounced along the tracks. What would Cailan do, without an heir? Everything flipped in that moment when he learned the truth. Cailan wasn’t the type, either, to follow in their father’s footsteps and father a bastard; no, he, Alistair, was the logical choice to be the heir.

Except he didn’t want to do it. 

He stared out the window, pushing away the guilt that persisted. He needed to stop thinking about it, and focus on the next six months. Lana would know in an instant something was wrong if he dwelled too deeply, even though she would not intrude on his privacy. Unless, of course, he was in danger or something. 

_Lana._ He couldn’t wait to see her. The thought of her reaction made him smile. 

Behind him he heard shuffling, and the low murmur of voices. He settled back in his seat, ignoring them; he’d always had exceptional hearing, but years of practice blocking out what he wasn’t interested in served him well. He dozed again, or started to, when he heard one of the men say, “...that’s what they’re saying. She’s a loose cannon, not good.”

“But what of the Knight-Captain?” a female voice asked.

The man made a gruff noise. “Good man, I hear, but you know how those Templars are. Fucking bastards, all of ‘em, way they treat mages. Rumor has it there’s been lots more Tranquil seen about, more than the Gallows ever had before.”

“The Knight-Commander’s doing, you think?” 

A third voice piped up, younger sounding than the other two, another male. “Mages, never liked them. Tranquil at least don't bother no one.”

“My sister is a mage, boy” the man said tersely. “I’d rather her dead than Tranquil.” 

“Ponzi, keep your mouth shut, please. She was never at the Gallows, I hope,” the woman said.

“No, thank the Maker. The Templars there...well. Everyone knows what they’re like.”

“Fucking rapists.” That was Ponzi. Alistair blanched at that. He had no love for most Templars, but lumping them altogether wasn’t fair. 

There was at least one of them out there who was faithful to the Order. Alistair was certain of it. His throat tightened, wondering-- What the older man said next piqued his curiosity enough to pull him away from his thoughts. 

“--at Kinloch Hold, though, during the uprising. She’s in Ostwick now.”

“Kirkwall’s Knight-Captain was at Kinloch too. She know him?” 

“I don't know. She doesn’t like to talk about what happened there.”

“No one does.” 

Rusting papers replaced the sound of talking. Alistair of course remembered Kinloch Hold. Well, second-hand remembered, though he never truly got all the details. Lana took Sten instead of him on that mission, citing his aching sword arm would hinder him, and left him back at the camp. It’d chafed him quite a bit when he’d found out what happened--he should’ve been there!--but when Lana made a decision, he obeyed it. 

She refused to tell him anything beyond they'd saved one of the Templars, and some of the mages, and killed a bunch of demons. He’d pouted, annoying her thoroughly, he remembered now with chagrin. Then they’d been swept up in a mess with a bunch of werewolves, and he’d forgotten all about Kinloch Hold.

With a sigh and sudden longing for a nice comfortable bed instead of the clanking, swaying, hard-benched train, he dropped his head back, smacking it right into the person behind him.

“Andraste’s tit! Watch it, you fucking--”

Alistair jerked back, his own head smarting.

“Ponzi,” the man barked. “ _Language._ ”

Alistair turned around, rubbing the back of his head. _Ponzi_ stood with a clenched fist, glaring at Alistair. He spread his hands, then nearly lost his balance as the train lurched. “I’m sorry, forgive me.”

“Ponzi sit down,” the woman said. “It was an accident.”

“Stupid git,” Ponzi muttered but at least he unclenched his hand. 

“It’s all right, son,” the man said. He was an older man, as Alistair guessed. Though his dark hair and beard were peppered with salt and grey, he reminded Alistair of Duncan. The woman was younger, short red hair, and an elf. City elf, he thought, as she bore no Dalish markings, just a lot of freckles. The boy was human. They all wore similar serviceable clothes, but they didn’t appear to be uniforms. Merchants, maybe?

The man frowned, then his eyes widened. “Prince Alistair? Your Highness, forgive us, we didn’t realize--”

The woman’s eyes widened too, and they both shot to their feet. “Ponzi!” she hissed. “Get up!”

“What? He ain’t no--” Ponzi turned and looked at him; Alistair huffed, then shrugged. Ponzi stood. “Shit. Fucking Prince Alistair hit me with his head?” Then Ponzi grinned. “What you doing with us cattle? You should be in the posh people car, yeah?”

“Ponzi,” the man said, clearly exasperated. He then bowed, though a sudden jolt made him sit. “My apologies, Prince Alistair.” He started to get up again.

“Please stay seated, it’s fine. It was my mistake. I didn’t realize the seat back was so low.” He looked over his shoulder. Thankfully no one else noticed their conversation. The train noise drowned everything out. Still, he lowered his voice. “Just Alistair, if you would. I’m traveling incognito.”

The woman grinned. “You should’ve grown a beard then, Sire.”

“No no, just only Alistair. Please?” 

She hesitated, then nodded. “Alistair.” She winced, then muttered, “My ma would have my head for that.” Then louder, she said, “I’m Tilda, this is Master Francesco, and that one is Ponzi. Headed to Highever to teach pottery glaze methods.” She grinned. “Not very exciting, I know.”

“No! No pottery, glazing on pottery, is very important, isn’t it? Master Francesco?”

“Fran is fine,” Master Francesco said with a laugh.

Ponzi whispered, loud enough for his voice to carry. “Just don't call him Franny. At least to his face.”

“Ponzi-- Respect please,” Tilda said as she leaned over and popped Ponzi on the head.

“Sorry, sorry,” Ponzi said as he ducked, but he was laughing. The Master did not look amused. 

“It was nice to meet you all. I’m really sorry. I’ll just sit over here.” His gaze fell on the papers he’d heard rustling; sandwich paper. They were eating lunch. He grinned sheepishly. “Please don't mind me.”

He sat on the bench opposite where he had before, shaking his head at himself. _That_ was embarrassing. Maybe he wasn’t as unrecognizable in regular clothes as he’d hoped. He rubbed the back of his head. He had a bit of a knot going, which aggravated his hangover headache. 

Then, his stomach growled. And even worse, he felt a little nauseous. He’d forgotten riding backwards on trains made him feel a little ill. He folded over, cradling his head on his knees. Maybe he should’ve waited a day, recovered from drinking so much. He discretely adjusted himself; definitely a bit raw from fucking Lysanthir so many times. Just what he needed on top of everything else.

Fuck. _Lysanthir._ He hadn’t paid his whore for his services, had he? Or had he? He closed his eyes, still folded over. The morning--was it really just this morning--was a fog. Not that he’d ever see him again, but he’d fucked Lysanthir an awful lot for no pay. He’d have to send some coin to him later, just in case. After all, sex with Lysanthir was the last he’d have for awhile. 

The thought of a year of no sex was...frightening. Maybe he could ask Lysanthir to come to Harper’s Ford? But that probably would be a bad idea. 

Plus, Lana would have his head if he introduced Lysanthir as his favorite whore.

Uh, no. Don't let the thoughts go there; his cock twitched. He squeezed his legs together, telling it to calm the fuck down. 

“Alistair?”

Alistair jerked up. Tilda stood in the aisle and held out a half sandwich. She frowned. He blinked, his face heating. “I’m sorry, did you say something?” He had to fight not to squirm.

“Would you like to join us? We have plenty of food.”

Alistair looked from her to the sandwich. His stomach growled again. “Um, I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“I packed extra. Please, join us.”

Feeling like the last kid called to play tag--though at least he got picked--Alistair nodded and stood, balancing himself against the seat back as he slid in next to Ponzi. Still backwards, but he hoped food would help, and these seats had a table. 

Thank the Maker for that. 

A porter walked by. “Sir, your sword.”

“What?” he screeched, crossing his legs. The others stared at him. “I mean-- Oh.” He looked down; his sword--the metal one--poked into the aisle. “Sorry.”

“Swords may be slid either under the table or in the overhead bin.” The porter eyed him. Sheepish, he stood and undid his scabbard, and slid it into the bin overhead. “Thank you sir--” Alistair sighed as the porter’s eyes widened. “Your Highness? You shouldn’t be back here--”

“I assure you I am fine.”

“This is-- This is most irregular,” the porter said, clearly flummoxed. “You’d be much safer in the royal car--”

“I am safe here. These people are my bodyguards. I assure you, Ponzi here can kill a man with just his pinkies.” Ponzi obliged by wiggling his pinkies at the guard; he took a step back.

“If you are certain, Your Highness-- I’d be happy to show you to the front--”

Master Francesco leaned forward. “He is _not_ the Prince. You are mistaken. He is my apprentice, Evrard.”

“Evrard,” the porter said, confused. Then his eyebrows shot up. “Oh!”

“He’s traveling with us, _incognito,”_ Ponzi whispered in that too-loud whisper. 

Alistair shrugged at the poor man, then waved at him. “Hi, I’m Evard.”

“Evrard,” Tilda murmured.

Alistair grinned. He liked these people. The porter let out a long, frustrated sigh. “As you say. Have a good day...Evrard.”

Once the porter was gone, Tilda put the half sandwich in front of Alistair. The boy pushed a bag of potato slices toward Alistair. “Chips?”

“Uh, thanks. And thanks for that, too.”

“I don't think you’ll be able to pass as anyone but who you are, Alistair.” Francesco handed Alistair a bottle of ale. Alistair took it, though the thought of alcohol right now didn’t sit well with him. “Where are you headed?”

Alistair thought of what this man said; his sister was a mage. “Visiting a friend in Harper’s Ford. The Hero of Ferelden.”

Francesco nodded, then gestured to the other two. “As Tilda said, we are headed to Highever. You travel without guards? The porter _is_ correct. Is that not...dangerous?”

“He’s a Grey Warden,” Ponzi said. “No one’s going to mess with a Grey Warden.”

“Except if we were attacked now, my sword up in a bin won’t help much,” Alistair muttered. He took a bite of the sandwich, then closed his eyes in bliss. Chicken and apples and he wasn’t sure what else. “This is fantastic.” He opened his eyes to Tilda’s grin. “I swear all I get is fancy little pretty ponzi foods these days.”

“Poncy food, you mean?” Ponzi laughed.

Alistair nodded as he took another bite. The sandwich was terribly good, the chips were cold but not soggy, and the ale chased his headache away. As the others dove into talking about slip and clay and forms and all sorts of pottery-ish things, his mind drifted back to Lana. She wouldn’t be expecting him, of course, but he hoped--badly--she wouldn’t mind him showing up at her door. 

It’d been two years--no, he thought guiltily, longer than that--since they’d spoken face-to-face. 

The first letter he received from her in Denerim, once Cailan dragged him there and locked all the doors so he couldn’t escape (talk about embarrassing, being locked in his own room for six weeks) she’d lovingly, in her Lana-ish way, chastised him a tiny bit but not really. Though she hadn’t written the words, he could read inbetween the lines well enough; he’d worried her terribly and she was relieved he was safe. 

What if she didn’t want to see him? What if she turned him away? Tears pricked his eyes; he didn’t know what he would do if--

“Alistair? Are you all right? ”

He blinked rapidly, then wiped his eyes. “Sorry. I just--” He smiled. “Long day.”

She nodded to the other two men; both had nodded off. Ponzi’s head slipped over against Alistair’s shoulder. He shrugged his other at Tilda. 

“Sorry. He goes like a whirlwind, then drops so fast I find myself envious.”

“I don't mind. May I ask you something?”

“Of course you can.”

“About what you were saying about Kirkwall earlier. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but is it as bad as Fran said?”

She glanced at Ponzi but the boy hadn’t moved. His mouth hung open as he snored softly against Alistair. If he drooled…

“Worse. The Templars there are out of control. After Kinloch Hold, Fran petitioned the King--” She stopped.

“My brother, go on--”

She nodded. “He went to Denerim and petitioned the King that his sister might be sent to Ostwick instead of Kirkwall.” She smiled fondly at Fran as he slept, head tilted back against the seat, his arms folded over his chest. “Franny’s father was Teyrn Cousland’s Master of the Household. He was away in Nevarra when Howe attacked and murdered everyone.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “He loved Pup Cousland like his own son.”

“His body was never found, was it.”

“No. He would’ve been your age, I think. Did you know him?”

“Me? No, no, though Duncan wanted to recruit him after recruiting Lana. By the time he planned to go get him, it was too late. He regretted waiting, going to Lana first. He might’ve saved Pup.”

“Or Pup might’ve been killed too. I think the Maker knew what he was doing, when choosing Lana to be the Hero of Ferelden, don't you think?”

“I-- I guess so. It’s horrible what happened. But no, I never knew Pup. Back then, I was just Alistair the Grey Warden, unrecognized bastard. I was no one.”

“You were-- _are_ \--a Grey Warden. I’d hardly call that no one. Without you, none of this would exist. The Blight would never have been beat.”

Alistair’s face heated and he looked at his half-eaten sandwich. “Really wasn’t me. It was Lana.”

“Who couldn’t have done what she had to, without you. Don't ever forget that. No one does-- Alistair?” He looked up. “You do know that, yes? You are much loved by everyone.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Why do people care about me?”

She tilted her head, her eyes reminding him suddenly of Merrill. Yet another friend who was a former friend. He wondered if she lived still, somewhere in the Korcari Wilds. 

“Alistair,” she said, chiding him; she sounded like Lana. “You’re a hero, the King’s heir. Everyone who sees you will know who you are.”

“How?” he said, bewildered.

“You don't know?” She pulled out her purse and opened it, then pulled out a silver, and handed it to him. He took it, turned it over; and stared at his face.

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” he moaned, clenching the coin in his hand and dropping his head...right onto the remnants of his sandwich. “I hate my brother. Fuck him, the fucking bastard.”

“Fucking what? Who?” Ponzi said as he jerked up. Fran’s eyes fluttered open, and just then, the train started to slow. 

The porter returned, calling out, “Harper’s Ford, all passengers not continuing to Highever get off here, please.” His gaze fell on Alistair. “Evrard?”

Alistair grimaced and stood as the train’s wheels screeched to a stop. He pulled his sword down, fastening the scabbard back in place. The coin still burned in his palm. “May I keep this?” he asked Tilda.

She smiled. “Of course you can. If it helps, they just came out a little while ago.”

Alistair pulled out one of his own and gave it to her. “How long?”

“Two months? Three?”

He groaned again. Why hadn’t Cailan told him? The crafty bastard. Fine. So he would be recognized by everyone he saw; maybe that would actually help him succeed. Somehow. 

The train finally stopped completely with one final lurch. 

“Thank you, Tilda, Fran, and you too Ponzi, for the lunch and for talking with me.”

Ponzi rubbed the back of his head. “Can’t wait to show my princely lump to my girl.” He grinned up at Alistair. 

“Did I really hit you that hard?” Alistair was aghast.

“Naw. Don't worry.”

“The lad’s got a thick head anyway,” Fran said. “If you’re ever in Highever, come by our studio. Just south of the castle.”

“Thank you, I will.” He shook Fran’s hand, then bowed to Tilda. “Thank you,” he said. 

She nodded as he straightened. Then he turned and left his new friends, and got off the train.

@)---‘--,----

Alistair followed the small gathering of people leaving the train station and headed into Harper’s Ford, his shield at his back, sword at his side, and his bag over his shoulder. He got more than one curious look followed by a flash of recognition, but no one said anything directly to him. There was no reason to deny who he was now, so he just nodded and smiled, being rewarded with smiles in return. 

The coin with his face burned in his pocket. Why had no one told him? Cailan had to have known he would find out about the coin eventually. Maker, he felt a fool. At least it’d been someone nice who told him. He wished Tilda and her companions lived in Harper’s Ford, but the invitation to visit them in Highever warmed him.

Not knowing exactly where to go, as he didn’t exactly plan ahead for this expedition, Alistair continued to follow the other passengers to the village. No, not just a village; Lana described in her letters how Harper’s Ford had grown into a proper town since she and Leliana moved there, its pretty hills, rich soils, excellent location along the new rail line attracting those tired of the big city grind. 

She’d made it sound like heaven to him--a simpler, kinder place, much needed after the Blight--and as he crested a small hill and spied the first colorful cottages beneath fully-leafed trees, and the picturesque hills beyond, he found himself grinning. 

Harper’s Ford was even prettier than he’d expected. 

A river in high tide ran just beyond the cottages, with colorful boats bobbing at their moorings. Two bridges crossed over the river, one with horse and carriage traffic--and even one car--the other reserved for those on foot. Someone nearby was cooking bread, and beneath that a pleasant blend of river and loam scented the air. 

He could smell roses, too. He loved roses, thinking sheepishly back to when he’d given Lana one. She’d sweetly let him down, explaining she thought him sweet, but Leliana had already captured her heart. They’d laughed together--for the first time, really--when he backed just has hurriedly away. He’d meant the gift to be in friendship, and had assured her his own heart was already taken. 

He’d tried to hide the sadness in his eyes but he was certain to this day that she knew. That part of the memory made him a bit melancholy; he’d never found his childhood love, didn’t even know if he was alive after the Blight. It’d taken so many. 

Alistair pulled himself back to the present. He walked steadily uphill now, a gentle incline that nonetheless taxed him a little. Living a life of too much wine, whoring, and debauchery had stolen away much of his stamina. _That_ was mortifying. He would start back to regular practice as soon as he could. And, no more ale or wine. Or at least less of them.

On the far side of the river stretched a row of grey merchant buildings with black trim and blue roofs, brightly-embellished signs swinging in the gentle breeze. In the distance, he could see fields of rich green grass, white sheep with black faces grazing within their stone-walled pastures. 

And in one particularly idyllic field, goats. _Lots_ of goats. 

Sea birds called to each other as they flew by overhead, and the unmistakable churn of a watermill hummed beneath the everyday sounds of people going about their day. 

And talk about the people! There were so many! The place was positively festive and it wasn’t even a holiday. Couples walking hand in hand, children scampering about, their laughter high pitched and happy. Artists set up with easels, painting the scene before them. Fishermen on their boats, calling to each other as they prepared to go out to the sea. There was a group of boys and girls in costume sitting together on a patch of grass, eating a picnic. An old couple--two men, which made Alistair smile--sat together on a bench holding hands, one smoking on a long curved pipe while the other read his newspaper balanced on one knee.

But best of all were the dogs. Big dogs, little dogs, even a few mabari! Some pranced next to their owners, others tussled playfully like the children, and more than one curled on their owners’ laps in the warm sun. These people _loved_ dogs. Maybe he wasn’t so foolish with his idea after all.

He didn’t see a single Templar, though as he drew closer he could see a scattering of Chantry sisters. He saw the Chantry then, high above the cottages, tucked between a grove of white-barked trees. There was no Circle here. No way Lana would’ve tolerated living near one.

He realized then he had no real idea where to find Lana. All he knew was the name of her coffee shop--Coffee Magic--and she and Leliana lived on a dead-end street with blue trim near the river. The _whole town_ was on the river. 

By now he’d reached the colorful cottages, each bursting with a riot of flowers. Outside one of the cottages a woman bent over, pulling weeds. As he approached, his boots scuffling loudly on the road, she stood and looked at him, her gaze dropping to his shield and sword. Then, she smiled. “Welcome to Harper’s Ford, Grey Warden.” 

That startled him. How had she known? “I-- Thank you. Might you know where I can find a coffee shop called Coffee Magic?”

A dog bounced out of the house and headed straight for Alistair.

“Chester, stop that,” the woman admonished as the dog--a puppy really--jumped up on Alistair. 

“It’s alright. I like dogs.” Alistair went to one knee to rub the dog's ears. 

"Lots of soldiers’ve been through here lately, stopping on their way to the big cities. They say troubles are coming." 

“What kind of trouble?”

“Don't say, was hoping you would know?” He shook his head. “Long as the Templars stay away. Left Kirkwall to get away from their like.” The woman's face brightened. "You know," she said conspiratorially, "the Hero of Ferelden herself owns that coffee shop."

Alistair grinned. "Yes, I know. I'm a friend. Coming to visit, maybe stay awhile."

"Friend, you say?" She scrutinized his face, eyes widening as she saw the griffon on his sword and shield. Horror crept into her eyes. She took a step back. "It's not another Blight is it? You’re not here to see her because--"

"No, no, I promise, there's no return of the Blight, I promise.” Though he did wonder about the ‘soldiers’ who she referred to. “I'm truly just coming to visit for a while. Lana's been after me for ages to come. I've just been...busy." 

She looked at him once again, then narrowed her eyes. Then, she beamed. "You'd be Prince Alistair then, am I right?"

He suddenly regretted stopping to pet the dog. "I-- uh..." He sighed. “Yes, you are right.”

“Well, you enjoy yourself in Harper’s Ford then, Your Highness. I warn you though, lots of pretty single ladies in Harper’s Ford. A handsome man like you?” 

He sighed. “Uh, thanks for the warning.” 

She turned then, and gestured across the river. “See that building at the end of the row? Big grey thing with a blue roof and red flowers outside it?”

“Yes ma’am, I do.”

She laughed. “So polite, and handsome too. Just like on your coin.” He groaned at that, making her laugh again. “Just the other side, can’t see it here, you’ll see a foot bridge. Takes you to an island where all the artisans are set up. The coffee shop’s in the middle. It’s a very popular place but I’m sure the Hero is there. Her wife is gone though. Works for the Divine, you know.”

She did? Alistair hadn’t known that. 

_I should’ve known that._

“Are there places to eat, too?”

“Oh yes! There’s a couple pubs, the coffee shop has food too, and of course there’s the bakery, and the sausage shop, and the cheese shop, and--”

“A cheese shop? An entire shop _just for cheese?”_

The woman nodded. “Charger’s Cheese Company.” Her eyes widened, but this time in fascination. “Owned by a _Qunari_.”

“Thank you for your help, and for talking to me.”

“It was my pleasure, Your Highness. 

Alistair waved goodbye to the woman and her puppy, then headed down the street and across the bridge. His light mood had dissipated a little, and he scanned the people more closely. He did see soldiers, but they all wore the same uniform. Were probably the city guard,. But as he left the bridge behind, and began to walk through the street toward the building the woman told him to look for, he did see two or three men and women who were even more heavily armed than he was. He felt their eyes boring into him as he passed.

The mood in general among the regular people here was good though; perhaps he was just letting his imagination--and the woman’s voiced concerns--get to him. 

Raucous laughter burst from a pub, and he saw a bloke standing on top of a chair, singing along with the bard. A sudden thirst for wine or ale or both rushed through him; he was thirsty, tired, and the craving to do what he’d vowed not to do here--drown himself in alcohol--drew him closer to the pub. He could smell it then--he closed his eyes, almost trembling with the desire to push the pub door open and go inside and grab the nearest pint.

Maybe he should. Maybe, it would be best. 

Maybe he’d made a mistake. 

It wasn’t like Lana knew he was coming. What if she was too busy for him? Especially with Leliana gone. _When_ had Leliana started working for the Divine? Guilt ravaged him. He was a terrible friend, not even bothering to write Lana back. He should’ve known exactly where her shop was, that Leliana was gone most of the time. Lana probably even told him about the cheese shop--he loved cheese so--yet he couldn’t remember if she had. 

Surely she would’ve?

The pub doors swung open and several men--including the one who’d stood on the chair--burst out, that one wrapping an arm over a rather grim-looking fellow’s shoulders.

“C’mon, now, is that any way to woo a lady? You’ve got to _say_ your words. Not grunt them!”

“Mphm,” the other man said, looking rather dejected. Their third companion, a white-haired female elf, laughed then nearly ran into him.

Alistair backed up as they passed, and found himself back on his journey as he was propelled along by the milling crowd. His steps slowed as he reached the bridge leading to the island--which teemed with people and music and laughter--as indecision filled him again. 

This was a mistake. Cailan was right about him. He would never be able to do this. Why would anyone trust him with their dogs? 

The crowd on the other side of the bridge parted as if by magic. He stopped, confused by the lone woman left standing. She wore a simple brown skirt, blue shirt and an apron with a coffee mug on it, and soft shoes. Golden hair caught the sun, and her pointed ears twitched, large eyes taking him in as she clasped her hands in front of her. She smiled, tilting her head as she looked up at Alistair; everyone around her quieted, and watched, curious, bemused and some even wary.

She was, he knew, their beloved Hero. And he was-- Nothing.

_Prince Nothing._

“Alistair,” she said softly, chiding him. She’d heard that, or sensed his thoughts. Or she just knew him that well. She then held out her hands. “Welcome to Harper’s Ford, my friend. Welcome home.”

A cry burst from him; he couldn’t help himself. Dropping his shield and his pack, he ran the rest of the way across the bridge and stopped just in front of her, panting, his throat tight and eyes stinging. 

“Lana,” he choked out.

Eyes shining, she threw herself into his arms. 

He caught her, twirling her around, hugging her so tight he feared he would crush her. He stopped and just held her, more gently now, unable to let her go. He buried his head in her shoulder--didn’t matter she was half his size, she was his rock, his mountain, and suddenly he was so terrified about what he had done to her--how badly he’d let her down--that a sob of misery escaped from him. He didn’t care who witnessed his undoing; she was all who mattered and he’d failed her.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please don't make me go.” 

Lana kissed the top of his head gently, her hands on his back radiating with warm and calm. 

“It’s all right, Alistair. It’s going to be okay. Everything will be all right now, I promise.” 

For the first time in a long, long time, he actually believed.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the state of the world right now, I seem to be finding lots of solace in writing, even as I am now working from home. I won't set a day for the next chapter to post, but I've already started it, so...probably it'll be ready fairly soon! Choosing to post as I go is madness, I know, but it is what I need right now (even if I have regrets later). 
> 
> Thanks to all reading, and coming along for the ride with me.
> 
> Last note: Harper's Ford's descriptions were inspired by a visit I made a couple of years ago to Looe, in the United Kingdom. I fell absolutely in love with the place with its combination of new and very very old, its river and the boats and the trails, and it is no exaggeration to say that the people there love dogs. They were everywhere! We had ours too, my friend's Siberian Husky.


	5. Harrowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five months into his investigation, Cullen has found little to pass on to the Seeker. The bad continues to outpace the good in the Gallows, and the whole affair begins to take its toll on Cullen. 
> 
> Then things go really wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has taken me a little longer than anticipated to get this next chapter up due to personal issues, and making the leap to working from home (which has made me work MORE, though I am of course grateful I am able to). But here it is at last, Chapter 5, and I'll be jumping right into working on the next without delay. 
> 
> Thanks for joining on this journey, and special thanks as always to @aurlana for her betaskillz! :) Any mistakes are my own (but hopefully there are none!).

Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford sat in his office, balancing a silver coin on one finger instead of working on his reports. There were ten more in a jar on his desk, each identical to the one he now held. The first time he ran across the newly-minted coins, some three months before, he assumed it was an imprint of King Cailan.

Then Varric pointed out the nose.

“The nose? What do you mean by--” And he looked at the coin, as he did now beneath the sputtering gas lamp and yes, it was there. It was _his_ nose. Alistair’s. Nothing like the King’s. 

He’d loved that nose, long ago. How could he have forgotten it?

“Hard to miss that,” Varric said, “even if the rest of him looks like a puffed-up peacock. What _is_ that collar’s purpose, anyway? Noble torment device?”

Though his throat tightened, he laughed with Varric at the absurdity of the thing. As he left the Hanged Man, he subtly--or perhaps not so subtly, given Varric’s knowing look--pocketed the coin, leaving another behind with their drink payment in its stead. 

Since then he saw them everywhere, those coins. Saw Alistair. _Prince_ Alistair, the boy he once loved, and who left him without a word of farewell.

Still hurt, that. 

Cullen sighed, closing his eyes as his mind took him back where it had thousands of times over the years; back to that small bed with Alistair, warm and sweaty by his side. His first kiss? Alistair. First time touching another boy? Alistair. The first person who touched _his_ cock? Alistair claimed that honor too.

 _Two boys,_ he thought, twirling the coin between his fingers. Young and inexperienced and, at least for his part, completely smitten. He thought Alistair was too, but then he left the Templars, joined the Grey Wardens. Hadn’t seen Alistair Theirin again until the day he found that coin and saw his face in relief. 

He blamed himself, of course. His guilt raged still for what he’d done--tricking Alistair into his bed. He woke up with Alistair still sleeping and naked beside him, their fingers entwined, the smell of their sex pungeant and Cullen knew only shame. Not for wanting another boy--he always knew he preferred boys and the Maker didn’t care about that--but for his dishonesty. 

So, long before the moon began its descent, he slipped out and ran to the Chantry to pray to Andraste for forgiveness. He lost track of time. When he came back, feeling only slightly less guilty, but eager to talk to Alistair to see if he still wanted...more. 

Alistair was nowhere to be found. The tournament was barely over but he couldn’t find Alistair anywhere, and so went back to their room to wait for him. 

Then, he’d learned that Alistair went with Ser Duncan, the Grey Warden. 

_I never got to say goodbye._

Cullen stood, pocketing the coin. He carried at least one of them with him at all times, not to stoke the flame, but to quell it. It was a reminder of his reality. He wasted enough time living in a past he would never recapture; Alistair was out of his reach, and always had been. He was a hero, a Grey Warden, and a Prince. Someday, he would be the King.

Prince Nothing, the other boys once called Alistair. Were any of the boys who were so cruel to Alistair still Templars? None that he’d known were in Kirkwall. He kept track of Hansen and Jensli for a few years, but after Kinloch Hold he lost touch. 

He knew he could find them if he tried, but what was the point now? They’d just remind him of the past and what he’d never have. And now, the constant threat of danger that strangled Cullen’s life would’ve endangered them, too. As it did every person he cared about.

Out of an abundance of caution, he intended to send Rylen back to Starkhaven, though he knew it would be over Rylen’s vehement objections. Varric he didn’t worry about so much; the man had an uncanny knack for getting out of bad situations. Hawke’s newly-restored noble status was protection enough for him, though Hawke was less friend than tolerated acquaintance. 

Cullen sat back in his chair, staring at the day’s itinerary. A harrowing was scheduled for later in the morning. At least this time he’d been informed, though no name was provided. The rest of the day looked uneventful. The Knight-Commander was out for most of the day, which meant double-duty for him, but also extra time to do his usual examination of her office. 

Today, it was most welcome. Every morning when he woke--well before dawn--to begin his duties, Cullen wondered, _will today be the day? Will she catch me? Kill me? Will I find anything...anything at all?_

Thus far, his findings for the Seeker were hopelessly slim. Still, he continued to look, continued to keep track of the names of those made Tranquil, and those Templars who overstepped their bounds he at least attempted to reign in. 

He did all of these things...carefully. He was no fool--though he was supposedly in a position of power, he had very little of it in reality. The Knight-Commander's disfavor of him was growing; the piercing looks and narrowed eyes. He barely managed to keep his calm under her growing ire.. 

His sleeping was erratic and sparse, the tension he carried, centering in his neck. He’d lost weight, which was easy enough to hide beneath his robes. Every day was more difficult than the previous. Yet each day that passed, he was more and more convinced he’d been correct to seek help, and to undertake the Seeker’s request. The growing dread, the pallor that hung over the Gallows’ halls, the fear rampant in the mages’ eyes had to be borne until he could find something, anything, for the Seeker...

A fist rapped on the door. 

Cullen froze, then turned to face the door. _When had he stood?_ He pinched his forehead, and sat back down, shuffled some of the papers on his desk and fought not to rub his neck. “Enter.”

He did not look up as the door opened. “Rylen, what is it--”

“Uh, sorry Knight-Captain. It’s not Rylen.”

Cullen looked up, then sat the papers he’d been shuffling down. It was one of the new recruits. “Recruit Maclins, is it? Come in,” he added as he saw the distressed look in her eyes. She looked worried. Perhaps even frightened. “What is it?” What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, Knight-Captain--”

“Close the door. Have a seat.”

“I--” She nodded, closed the door then sat on the edge of the chair. “Graeden said that you might help--” She closed her eyes briefly. “That you might help me to understand--” Her hands curled into fists. “That you might clarify the reason for the new initiation the newer recruits are having to go through. Sir.”

Over the past months, Cullen’s ability to keep his expression schooled served him well. Now, he barely hid his alarm in time. New initiation? What was she talking about? “Yes?”

“I-- I don't understand it. It just seems...inappropriate. Graeden said he didn’t have to go through anything like it, and I am very uncomfortable with this and I just-- I think I am not meant to be a Templar, Knight-Captain.” She shook her head. “Forgive me.”

Cullen weighed his options, even as disquiet roiled in his chest. Templar Graeden was correct, of course. He had no knowledge of a new initiation because there shouldn’t be one and now he must admit it. At least the Lieutenant had come to him. Not every Templar avoided him. Yet.

“What exactly is involved in this ritual?”

She shifted on her chair. “We’re to wait until after dark this evening, then we’ll be taken to them--”

“To who?”

“I don't know, Knight-Captain. We’re supposed to wait down at the gate. They’ll take us to the initiation place.” His blood positively chilled. “Please, sir, I’m frightened. The others…” She paled. 

“Go on.”

“The others, they say it's--” She shook her head. “I didn’t want to be a Templar. I mean I did want to, but I want to help people, not hurt them. I don't want to do this.”

“Hurt what people?”

She blanched. “The mages, of course.”

 _The mages._ He coughed, hiding his discomfiture. Of course. Cullen clasped his hands together, his mind racing. _What was going on here?_ He knew what, of course. Everything was going wrong, right before his eyes--and out of his sight as well. The Tranquil. This Order of Fiery Promise. Meredith’s increasingly-strange behavior, and now this initiation which he suspected was an excuse to terrorize the mages and force them into failure. Frustration made him grimace. “Templar Graeden should be on duty right now. Is this correct?”

“Yes, he’s on duty, sir. Knight-Captain.” She stood abruptly, her face reddening. “Please don't be angry with him Knight-Captain, he’s just trying to help me--”

“Have him come to see me this evening, after his shift.”

“I will, Knight-Captain.”

She left. After he was certain she was gone, Cullen snuck into the hallway; clear and empty. He closed his door behind him, then after one last check, headed down the hallway to Meredith’s office. Pulling the key from his pocket--a key Meredith didn’t know he had--he unlocked the door then slid inside, closing the door behind him. 

He knew this office as well as his own. Meredith was as fanatically neat as she was fanatic. Nothing looked out of place. Over the past four months, he’d developed a quick routine once he was certain Meredith--and her chosen Templars--were going to be away long enough for him to investigate her office and quarters. 

First came the desk. Gloves on, he quickly rifled through each drawer, taking great care not to move anything out of place. He’d always had an excellent visual memory and it stood him in good stead now as he expertly--after months of doing this he was quite adept at it--checked the desk for anything new.

Nothing.

He grimaced, then moved on to the cabinet, quickly racing through the many files. There wasn’t much time--the Lieutenant’s interruption had shaved a good twenty minutes off--so he went through a little less thoroughly than usual. Still, nothing unusual here.

He slammed the last drawer shut and, hands on hips, surveyed the room. He closed his eyes, shaking his head, rubbing his forehead in frustration. 

It was a feeling, rather than sound, or anything visual that caught his attention. He was no mage yet there was a curl of something..something that felt like it, pulling at him. He had no claim to any special sensing skills at all beyond a knack for quickly grasping difficult concepts. This new awareness teased at him, humming into him as if caught up with the lyrium in his blood. A quick flare; he turned around, eyes narrowed, tense and one hand on his sword.

Something was different. Everything looked the same and yet? Something...he shook his head which _hurt._ He rubbed his temples, forced himself to relax his gritted jaw. 

He closed his eyes. The better to hear a hum felt more than heard? He took a step, and then turned, pulled to the side, one step after another. He opened his eyes. He still saw nothing, but the hum turned into a _drumming_...bouncing along his nerves, making his entire body warm and thrum and…

“Maker’s breath.” What was happening? 

He took another step just as another wave of desire passed through him, centering in his groin; desire for touch, for taste, for _something… Where is it? He needed it, he wanted it…_

A groan escaped him as he sank to his knees, his breeches tight and confining as a wave of hot pleasure raced through him. It was so intense, so shocking and inappropriate and--what was that glow? Dazed, he blinked, staring at the tiles on the floor. With unsteady fingers he touched one of the tiles. 

A flare of red suffused the room, limning his outreached hand. _Come to me, touch me, take me, I am yours._ He jerked back with a startled yelp, scuttling backwards, his sword catching on the desk and entangling him. 

“Maker’s balls,” he swore beneath his breath, the epitaph escaping before he could stop himself. Red lyrium? It _was_ real. The Seeker was right. She had to be right. He had no means to open the safe but there could be little doubt as to the source of the pleasure-pain coursing through him. 

He must get word to the Seeker immediately.

He stood shakily, only vaguely aware of the sound of heavy footsteps approaching beyond the closed door. A voice bellowed down the hall, slamming into his consciousness. 

“Cullen? Cullen Rutherford, where are you? I know you’re here, damnit. _Where the fuck is my sister?_ ” 

* * *

“Why did you not tell me she was a mage?” Cullen said, his fury barely checked as they hurried down the hallway. All this time, Hawke’s sister--a mage--ran freely around Kirkwall like she had the right. An apostate, right under his nose and he’d not seen? He’d talked to Bethany several times. She and Varric were friends. _He_ had to know. And, Cullen thought grimly, chosen not to say a word. This could have been avoided. 

There was only one place Bethany Hawke would have been taken to. 

“You know why. You would’ve taken her.”

Cullen stopped. “I would’ve _protected_ her.”

Hawk glared at Cullen. He did not stop moving; he grabbed Cullen’s arm and hauled him along. “Then why are you so frightened for her now?”

Cullen wrenched free of Hawk’s vice-like grip. He couldn’t deny Hawke’s accusation. “Why are you alone? Where is Fenris?”

“Busy.”

Fine. Cullen gestured for Hawke to follow him. Every step they took toward the Harrowing chamber, Cullen’s dread grew. His mind roiled, bouncing from the so-called new initiation, to the mysterious red glow in Meredith’s hidden safe, and back again to Bethany Hawke, Apostate Mage. 

“I wish you had brought Anders.” 

Hawke stopped and glared at him. “Do you seriously think I’d let him come here? You Templars would probably try to take him, too. Where are we going, Cullen.”

He’d hoped Hawke wouldn’t question him but of course he did. And there it was, their destination. “There.”

The Harrowing chamber’s doors were shut tight. Just as his hand fell on the handle, he heard an angry shout from within, a young woman’s shout. “ _Don't you dare touch me!”_

Cullen threw open the door and stopped, taking in the scene before him. A young woman in mage robes huddled on the floor, the sword in her hand obviously taken from one of the Templars. A mage, with a sword--Bethany Hawke. He wished his assumption had not been correct. 

Four Templars turned and glared at him, none of them pulling back when they saw who it was. One of them was Alrik. Of course. This was not going to end well. 

“What is going on here?” he said.

“Have they harmed you?” Hawke demanded as he pulled his sword out; two of the Templars turned their focus to Hawke. 

“Smite,” she said breathlessly. “They’re _trying_ to make me Tranquil.”

“That’s not going to happen.” 

“Think not?” the Templar closest to Bethany said, then landed another Smite on her. She screamed, falling to the ground. 

“ _Bethany!”_

Hawke started toward his sister but Cullen grabbed him. 

“ _Enough_ ,” Cullen roared, pushing Hawke away as the Templar grabbed Bethany and pulled the sword from her numb fingers. “Who gave you orders to make this mage Tranquil?”

Alrik turned coolly to them both. “On whose orders? The Knight-Commander has ordered her made Tranquil. She is an apostate, Knight-Captain. She is a danger, and dangerous mages must be dealt with.”

Hawke bellowed, “That’s my _sister._ You kidnapped her, you filthy bastard.”

Ser Alrik smiled. “Kidnapped? Not exactly.”

Hawke pulled away from Cullen. “You went into _my_ house, and _took her._ You had no right!”

“We had every right. Even _you_ ,” another of the Templar said, sneering at Cullen, “know this to be true. It’s the law. Suspected mage activity must be investigated. Suspected mages must be brought to the Gallows. What they want, noble or not, doesn’t matter. Suspected mages aren’t people. They must be made Tranquil, we must make them _all_ Tranquil. Only then will the Fiery Promise--” 

Alrik stopped the man. “Enough, Kavin. We owe the Knight-Captain no explanation.”

“Garrett,” Bethany whispered hoarsely, her jaw set. “Don't let them do this to me. You know what to do.”

“Bethany--” Such despair in that single word made Cullen stare at the two siblings, at Hawke’s anguished nod. For a moment Cullen was confused but then he saw Hawke slowly pull a dagger out, saw Bethany close her eyes--

“ _No!_ ” 

Cullen drew his sword and lunged at Alrik. The second his blade crossed Alrik’s he knew he was in trouble; the man was a beast with the sword, and even worse, he was Knight-Commander Meredith’s man. Alrik, if he survived, would see Cullen hang for this. Even if he bested Alrik, Cullen realized grimly, he might still hang. 

There was no turning back now. With the next thrust, Cullen sealed his fate. 

He was only vaguely aware when Hawke’s dagger speared the Templar holding Bethany in the eye. The man slid down onto the floor, dead. Bethany didn’t hesitate; she grabbed a sword and joined in the fray and hacked the unsuspecting Ser Alrik from behind. He roared, whirling toward her, his sword meeting Hawke’s as one of the other Templars fell to the ground, clutching his gut. 

Cullen wasted no time turning on the third Templar; the shock in the man’s eyes of fighting his Knight-Captain did little to deter Cullen from his course. He struck, then turned and parried, sweeping back under the Templar’s almost-wild slice at his head. Sloppy. Blood made Cullen’s forward boot slip, and he almost fell to one knee just as Ser Alrik rushed him, hitting him full-force.

Cullen sprawled, his sword wrenched from his grip. Ser Alrik leered at him, circling him, his sword pointed at Cullen. He stilled, chest heaving as he looked up at the madman--for madman he was--as his eyes glowed with an unnatural light. Fear gripped Cullen for the first time: fear that whatever was happening in the Gallows ran deeper than he imagined. “You’re nothing but a flea, _Rutherford_ . With you dead, Meredith will make _me_ her Knight-Capt--”

The point of a blade burst from Ser Alrik’s chest. His eyes widened with disbelief as he looked down at it. Then the blade was yanked out again. His sword fell from his grip and with a roar, Cullen grabbed it and stabbed upward, using the leverage of Ser Alrik falling to his knees to pierce him through.

Blood dribbled out of Ser Alrik’s mouth. Behind him the other Templars lay dead, and Hawke and his sister--still clutching the sword she’d used to plunged into Ser Alrik--held each other. 

Somehow, Ser Alrik wasn’t dead, though slumped to the floor. Cullen grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back. His own hand shook as he pressed the blade to the man’s throat. 

“Tell me what’s in Meredith’s safe.” He knew he had to be right, but wanted--needed--to hear it from this man, that Cullen hadn’t been wrong. That the Seeker hadn’t.

Ser Alrik’s blue eyes, blood-shot with red, widened. Then the man smiled, red-stained teeth in a grimace. “You don't know? She truly never told you?” He laughed, sputtering blood on Cullen’s chest. 

Cullen pushed the blade into his throat, drawing blood. “Tell me or I’ll kill you. _Now.”_

Only Cullen’s grip on the man’s hair kept him up. “I’m already dead. You’ll soon be too, when she’s seen what you’ve done. When she learns you’ve been snooping. You want to know what it is? I’ll tell you. _It is the Promise._ ”

Alrik’s eyes rolled back in his head. Cullen let him go. 

“What did he mean?” Hawke said.

Cullen said nothing for a moment, then lifted his gaze to the blood-splattered room, finally looking at Hawke, and his mage sister. Even now, part of him argued she should be made to stay, but he knew it was folly to think he could protect her now. 

He thought of sweet young Amberly. _So much failure._ First Kinloch Hold, now here.

No, he’d failed even before, hadn’t he? He closed his eyes at the pain, the loss… _Alistair._

The coin. He slowly opened his hand and stared at it; empty. He surveyed the bloody room. He’d lost it during the battle. _Why did that hurt so much?_

Cullen turned away from the others, rubbed the back of his neck to cover his shame. “I need you to do something for me, Hawke. Others will be here soon enough, and I can’t do it myself. There simply isn’t time, anymore.” 

The rasp of a blade sliding into its sheath accompanied Hawke’s footsteps as he walked over to Cullen. Hawke hesitated, then put one blood-stained hand on Cullen’s shoulder, turning him. Cullen flinched. Hawke’s grip tightened, his eyes worried. “What are you talking about? Come with us. I can get you out of the city--”

Cullen sighed. “No. Running is the last thing I can do.” His laugh was short. “Though tempting.” He pulled gently away as Bethany joined her brother. “Bartrand’s idol. I think Meredith has it.”

“You know about that?” Garrett said.

“Varric told me what happened.” 

Bethany and Garrett looked at each other, then back at him. Garrett scowled. “Well, fuck. Where is it?” 

“Locked up in her office. I didn’t _see_ it,” he said, his voice drifting, remembering. “I-- I somehow felt it.” He cleared his throat.

“It’s lyrium. Perhaps that’s why?”

“Red lyrium. Yes,” Cullen answered, his voice not hiding his shock as all the pieces tumbled together into a terrible whole. “I wanted--” How could he explain the grip it took on him? The longing he felt, the desire--the rush through his veins, the sensuality of it, the _urge_ of it-- How it called to him. How much _he wanted it._

He jerked his thoughts from that, could feel his face flush. He fought for control. He was no teenager but certainly reacted like one. He cleared his throat, glancing quickly at Hawke, whose eyebrows lifted. “I wanted Alrik to confirm what it was, but--” He gestured to the lifeless body.

Hawke nodded. “Believe me, if you had that kind of reaction to it? It’s there. I at least had Anders to help me deal with the aftermath.” He grinned.

“ _G_ _arrett,_ ” Bethany said, shaking her head. “Not now.”

Cullen groaned softly, covering his face. Bethany understood? “Hawke--” The damn man actually chuckled. “You need to go. Get Bethany out of here, _out_ of Kirkwall. Then I need for you to leave a note behind Andraste’s statue in the Chantry.” It would be days yet before anything from him was expected, but nothing he could do about that. 

“What? Seriously? Why?”

Cullen took a deep breath. He did not want to endanger Hawke further but he had no choice. “I’ve been working with a Seeker of Truth to investigate Ser Alrik,” he gestured at the body, “and Knight-Commander Meredith.” He would tell them no more than that. 

“That’s why you look like crap.”

Cullen huffed. “It has not been easy the last few months. The Seeker needs to know about the idol. I believe it will be sufficient for her to take Meredith and her Templars out.”

“What about you?” Bethany asked. 

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “I-- It is not your concern. I will be fine.” 

Hawke folded his arms over his chest and looked down at Cullen. He was a big man, but Hawke was even bigger. And, fought far more regularly than Cullen. “You’re not a good liar, Knight-Captain.”

He thought of the Seeker’s promise to get him out of there once he had what he needed to stop Meredith. Still, it could take days for the Seeker to arrive. Somehow, he would have to endure whatever Meredith did to him. “I have a way out. Just go. Do this for me, Hawke. Please. Take the back stairs just past my office. You shouldn’t run into anyone.” He hoped. “Can you find your way there?”

Hawke looked torn, his sword still unsheathed. The warrior was a good man, Cullen thought. He didn’t blame Hawke, not truly, for hiding his sister all this time from him. Finally, Hawke nodded. 

“We’ll manage. Maker watch over you, Cullen.”

“And you both,” Cullen whispered as they left him to stare at the remains of what were, at one time, four good men. 

It was over. No matter what Meredith chose to do, his fate was now sealed by his own hand. He was truly unsure how he felt about that; all his life, he wanted to be a Templar; believed in their goodness, in their right to oversee the mages. Believed that mages--he winced at himself, thinking of Bethany. Of Amberly, and the others who were forced to be Tranquil. Was he wrong? Had he always been wrong? Did he truly believe that, even after Kinloch Hold?

Wasn’t that what initially pushed him to go against Meredith in the first place? 

He was, in truth, no longer a Templar at heart, and had not been for a very long time. The Seeker either would choose to save him or not. It was no longer in his hands. His gaze fell on Garrett’s dagger where it remained embedded in the Templar’s eye. That dagger was meant for his sister. She would rather have died at her brother’s hands than become Tranquil, or even confined within the Gallows walls. The siblings _planned_ this out for Bethany, should the need arise.

What kind of world was this, that a brother be forced to do such a thing? 

He understood, too well, how she could choose death over such a life, but he simply did not have the strength to reach for that dagger and use it on himself.

No. If the Maker meant to make further use of him somehow, it was not for him to deny that destiny. Weariness pushed on his shoulders. He sat and leaned against the wall opposite the door to wait. 

It did not take long. 


	6. Cullen's Bad Day(s)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen meets his fate, though in the end it is most unexpected.

_ Should for all seasons laments ring the sky-vaults, _

_ Should dirges all sages and histories replace? _

_ By gods forsaken, fate emptied of hope, _

_ Wounded I fell then, by grief arrow-studded, _

_ Never to heal, death for me come. _

“ Never to heal, death for me come,” Cullen whispered. He brushed away the thin trickle of sweat rolling down his cheek.  There was no doubt in Cullen’s mind several of his ribs were broken. Every breath  _ hurt _ . Cuts covered his hands where the Templars he fought struck home. The wound on his leg let itself be known sometime during his second recitation of the  _ Chant of Andraste _ . 

Stabbed with a dagger? Ser Alrik’s sword? The fight was such a blur, he could not recall.

Minutes ticked by.

Cullen made it through most of his third recitation when the door burst open at last. Even expecting it, he flinched. Meredith, followed by six Templars-- _ her _ Templars--flooded the room. She stopped a few feet inside to survey the bloody scene, and raised her hand up to halt those behind her. 

“What is the meaning of this?  _ What happened here? _ ”

Then, she saw Cullen where he sat against the far wall, one hand on his cracked ribs, his injured leg stretched out before him. 

The shock on her face quickly turned to...triumph. 

“ _ You. _ ” 

Ser Alrik chose that moment to groan.  _ Fuck.  _ Cullen dropped his head against the wall. He should’ve checked to see if the man was truly dead. He should’ve been sure-- Cullen knew he was well and truly dead now. Even if Hawke reached the Seeker today, it’d be too late to save him. 

He closed his eyes briefly, then nodded, locking gazes with her. He would not cower. “Me.”

Meredith’s face reddened. She gestured to the Templars. “Get Alrik to Orsino,  _ now. _ ” 

Two of the Templars ran for Ser Alrik; one glanced at Cullen, and leered at him. “ _ You’re fucked, _ ” he mouthed. “ _ Finally _ .”

Meredith stormed over to Cullen. He did not move--he wasn’t sure he could--just watched as she approached. “How dare you.  _ How dare you!”  _ Then, she slapped him. 

His head banged to the side, making him bite his tongue. The ring she always wore gouged his cheek. Blood trickled from his mouth. He wiped it, willing the singing pain to fade, fought to sit back up. He blinked at the double-vision of his superior glaring down at him. He may be sitting, he may be looking at his death, but he refused to show fear. She bent to him, her eyes rabid and--Cullen noted dazedly--oddly red. Glowing, like the glow in her office. 

Was it just the light through the windows? 

“Where is she,” she demanded. “Where is that Hawke bitch.”

“ _ Lady  _ Bethany Hawke, you mean? Gone,” he whispered, a mirthless chuckle rising up inside him.  _ She’d known. _ Of course she’d known Bethany was to be made Tranquil. “You can’t touch her. She got away. I helped her get away.” He left Hawke out of this. 

“She was an apostate! She was dangerous!  _ You had no right! _ ”

He struggled to find his voice. Nausea threatened; internal bleeding? Maybe. “I had every right. She’s innocent.” He coughed, the taste of blood in his mouth the least of his worries. “They all were. Amberly. The others--”

“Shut  _ up. _ ” She kicked him, her booted foot aimed at his ribs. He tried to shelter himself but the pain exploded. He refused to cry out, he refused to beg for mercy. He wouldn’t give her that satisfaction. His vision swam as he looked up at her. He would  _ not  _ cower. Not to her. 

A feral look settled on her features. “You killed three men. She might’ve got away from me--for now--but  _ you _ won’t.” She glanced at his leg, the red stain spreading. “You’ll get no special treatment just because of your station. You’re a murderer, and a traitor to the Order. Prepare to suffer, Cullen. As you never have before.”

A bubble of laughter erupted. “What can you do to me? I’m already a dead man.”

She stood, her hands clawed. The slow smile made him shiver. “I know what happened to you in Kinloch Hold. I know your weaknesses. You’ll be begging to tell me before I’m done with you. I’ll find out where Bethany is, either through you, or her brother.”

“Hawke will tell you nothing.”

“You say that with such conviction.” She grinned. “I doubt you did this alone.”

He narrowed his gaze. “You were hoping to catch him.”

“And  _ you _ ruined my plans.”

“Why?” he blurted out. “Why are you doing this?”

She tilted her head to one side, the maniacal gleam back in her eyes. “Seize him and throw him in the lowest dungeon.” 

“Gladly, Knight-Commander.”

She turned away, then stopped and turned back. “I was wrong to give you a chance. No one else wanted you after your failure at Kinloch Hold.” That made him tense up. “Your career as a Templar is over.  _ You _ are over.” She stared down her nose at him. “You’re a dead man. I hope saving your pretty little mage was worth it. Was she that good? At least you’ll have something to think about while you rot.” To the two waiting Templars, she said, “Take him. Withhold all lyrium and food.”

“Yes, Knight-Commander.”

She looked down at him. “You may have been strong enough to survive Kinloch Hold,  _ Cullen _ , but you won’t survive this. No one’s coming for you this time.” Then she was gone.

He was, he realized, in shock. The pool of blood beneath his leg and the lightness of his head--along with the myriad of other wounds--took away the last of any fight left in him. The two Templars grabbed him by the arms and easily pulled him to his feet. He crumpled. Neither said a word as they dragged him out of the room.

* * *

A light shone across Cullen’s face, waking him. He caught himself, his heart beating faster as he fought to take in his surroundings. The smell of unwashed bodies--including his own--hit him first. The cot on which he lay--filthy--the blanket over him grimey. His clothes; tattered. He wore a brown shirt stained with dirt and sweat, his feet were bare, and the breeches were so thin he could see his leg muscles, and the dark stain from the untreated stab wound. 

He hurt. Everything about him hurt. Every breath was torture; the air in the cells deep under Kirkwall, cloying and hot. He shuddered as a wave of nausea passed through him. 

_ How long has it been? _

He was no longer certain. The only thing he  _ was _ certain of was this: he was in serious trouble, and might have from days to mere hours to live. He hadn’t intended to be dead well before thirty-five, but when had anything he ever planned worked out the way he wanted? 

Would they tell his sister what happened? Embellishing what he’d done--killed four, no three, Templars in a mindless rampage? It sickened him, the thought of Mia believing he’d gone mad.

He wasn’t the mad one, here. 

He only hoped Hawke was able to leave the message for the Seeker. He hoped Bethany was safe. He huffed at himself; a year ago, he wouldn’t have cared…

No.  _ No. _ He’d never been that callous, that cruel. 

_ Hadn’t you? _

He pushed himself up, panting from the effort, shaking his head. “No.  _ NO. _ ”

Something hit the cell bar door. He flinched. “Shut up in there or I’ll come beat ya again. You want that?”

He didn’t answer. He leaned against the wall, slumping, his hands--he held them up, staring at them in the dim light. The cuts were all but gone, the deeper one on his arms scabbed over. He turned his head to the side, stared at the scrapes he’d made in the wall; seven lines. He’d been here seven days then. 

Seven days to heal without medicine or even magic. Seven days without food, without lyrium. Seven days without its blessed hum coursing through his veins, filling him with strength and light.

_ Gone. All gone. _

He’d thought of quitting it more than once. Many Templars he knew considered it at one time or another. He’d considered it himself, time and again, and recently more than ever but not like this. Not stopped cold. 

He knew what happened to Templars deprived of lyrium, especially so abruptly. 

The first day or so wasn’t too bad, but by the third, the need for it began to hum in one’s veins. If also deprived of food--as he was--all desire to eat was gone. The body’s wasting away began. The humming grew worse until it became painful, a lurching  _ need _ ever-present in the mind. Nothing else mattered, nothing else save for lyrium, lyrium, sweet lyrium. 

Madness came next _. _

Was that what Meredith wanted? For him to go mad as she? 

Eight, nine days since the last lyrium dose, that’s when it got really bad; the physical pain as the need became overwhelming, until hands became claws and started to scratch and tear and--

He stared at his hands, the fresh cuts and scrapes. He’d done those to himself.

He didn’t remember. 

He did, however, know he experienced withdrawal one time before, when--in-- in Kinloch Hold. No food, no water, no lyrium for days, though his desire demon keeper somehow kept him alive and functioning. The better to toy with him, dangle that what he wanted most-- _ his _ face,  _ his _ smile,  _ his _ touch _ \-- _ in front of him. 

Once the Warden saved him, it’d only taken a couple doses of lyrium for his withdrawal symptoms to disappear. He’d not been on lyrium long, back then. And, compared to the doses at Kirkwall, easier to tolerate the loss of for a while. 

To this day he didn’t know how he remained so strong. A boy’s faith? In part. Back then, he’d believed he would stay strong, that he wasn’t meant to die so young. He still had so much good in him, so much he wanted to accomplish. Dreams, he had those too, though the best of them could never come to fruition despite the desire demon’s promises. 

Nausea slammed into him. He folded over, then slid to his knees onto the filthy floor, grasping his stomach, his eyes watering. He groaned, and fell back, gasping for breath, clutching his injured leg. He stretched it out, wincing, then ran his hand over his beard, and stopped. Far more than a week’s growth. 

With a grimace, Cullen realized the truth: he’d been here much, much longer than he thought, and yet he couldn’t recall half of it. And, worst of all? 

The Seeker wasn’t coming. He truly was going to die. 

* * *

Time passes differently in the dark. 

This was one of many things Cullen came to accept during the long days and nights in his cell. The only consistencies were his meals; though Meredith ordered him starved of both food and lyrium, the former was without fanfare suddenly provided. Not a kindness--Cullen didn’t see it as that. There was no kindness presented to him in the days following his incarceration. 

For some reason, Meredith wanted him alive.

His life as a prisoner took on a new routine. He ate what was given to him. Sometimes he was able to keep it down; other times, the withdrawal robbed him of not just time, but the contents of his stomach. He did not torment himself with dreams of food he would never see again, nor the memories associated with meals. To go down that road--to think of his family--was its own kind of torture. 

He quickly learned which guards to be wary of. The wrong sound at the wrong time, a cough, even breathing too hard could set them off. The night crew was the worst. Most of the beatings he received were at their hands. Layered on top of his untended injuries, multiple bruises were added. 

Some days were a blur, lost to the agony of withdrawal. Those days--when he finally dragged himself to the other side--left him less than he was, a relentless chipping away of his soul. Soon, there’d be nothing left of him. Soon, he wouldn’t emerge on the other side, find his awareness again, have enough left to scrabble for that small flame of brightness within him that said  _ live, live, death is not your fate! _

He wanted to believe but it was hard. So very hard. 

He woke one day to a different sort of excruciating pain; two fingers on his sword hand were swollen, twisted. Shattered. Maybe other bones as well. Every movement brought spiraling, unrelieved pain. He had nothing left to cope with it, so he gave in, gave up.  _ Maker, take me. Please. _ He drifted in and out of consciousness, willing Death to come claim him.

Still, it did not.

* * *

Midnight came again. 

He heard a guard’s angry snarl, words of protest slowly reaching him and pulling him from his misery. He lay on his side, curled-up like a child. His fever spiked earlier, leaving him soaked. His body screamed for lyrium, for something to take away the pain in his hand--to  _ take _ his hand, if it would just stop hurting--for relief that would never come. 

No lyrium, no death--

“I’m going to tell the Knight-Commander about this,” the guard hissed. 

“You do that. You, open the door.” A beat. An impatient huff. “ _ Now.” _

Cullen blinked. 

He knew that voice. That accent. Feminine, but strong, laced with a fierceness that made the strongest tremble.  __

He pushed back against the wall, not daring to hope, his broken body wracked with pain. He strained to see in the dark but when lamplight flooded the hall outside his cell, pushing back the darkness, he winced, raising his better hand to block the light.

“You are dismissed.”

“That prisoner is dangerous,” the guard said. 

“That is why I am here. Now leave us.”

The guard started to say something, but another voice, male this time, cut in. “Are you choosing to disobey a Seeker’s order?”

“Fine. Don't say I didn’t warn you.”

Footsteps retreated. A shape entered, followed by two others. 

Another hallucination. Another dream. 

_ So tired. _

“Stay here. Hold up the light so I can see him.”

“No. Please,” he whispered. 

“Keep it from blinding him.” The lamp moved behind a body. 

_ Kindness. _

The first shape walked to him, steps and breath sharp. Cullen blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the brightness, understand what was happening. He dared not hope. Even when he understood the uniforms were not that of the Templars, he dared not hope. Unbidden, his eyes welled. 

The woman knelt close to him. He closed his eyes, shaking his head. Was it real? Had help finally come? 

A hand stilled him, then brushed his hair back. He reached up, his hand shaking so hard from withdrawal he could do no more than wrap it around her wrist. She said with a gentleness he’d not heard before, “I am so sorry I am so late.”

“You’re here now. You’re here now.” 

“You are in lyrium withdrawal. What are your injuries?”

He took a careful breath, focusing on his injuries. “Stab wound, right thigh. Right hand is broken. Ribs.” He huffed. “Bruises.”

She started to pull away but he grasped her arm as heavy boots--a lot of them--resounded through the stone hallways. “Meredith.”

“I will tend to the Knight-Commander. My men will help you. Daniel, be careful with him.” 

“I will.”

She stood. He let her arm go. Her companions came to him and eased him up so he was sitting. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice hoarse with embarrassment but the two men--also with Seeker emblems on their armor, helped him to his feet. He clutched at them, keenly aware just how wretched he was. How disgusting. 

“What is the meaning of this?” 

Meredith’s voice echoed down into his cell. He could not help it. He cringed away but the two men held him fast.

The Seeker waited. 

Meredith stormed into the overly-full cell. The lamplight made her eyes glow. She looked half-mad with fury. “This is  _ my  _ prisoner. What do you think you are doing? Who do you think--”

“Enough.” The Seeker waited for a beat, then Meredith’s eyes widened as her gaze fell on the Seekers’ armor. Her entire body trembling with rage. “You will remit this prisoner into my custody.”

“You have no right to him.”

“As the Divine’s Right Hand, and as Seeker? Yes, I do.” She pulled out a scroll and handed it to Meredith.

With a snarl Meredith grabbed it, and unfurled it, gaze darting across the page. 

Were it light enough to see, Cullen imagined her face was bright red with fury.

Meredith threw the scroll on the ground. “That man is a murderer, Seeker. He killed three of my best men, let an apostate go,  _ and _ injured my Knight-Captain.”

“It is my understanding  _ this _ is your Knight-Captain.”

“Former.” Meredith sneered. “Worst mistake I’ve ever made. He doesn’t deserve the title. He doesn’t deserve to  _ live _ .” Pulling her sword out she started to go to Cullen; he pulled back, but the Seeker blocked her. 

“You will not touch him.”

Meredith stopped, but only just. “You’re  _ defending  _ him, Seeker? Is that what you intend, to take a killer and  _ free him _ ? Has the Divine gone mad?”

The Seeker pushed her back, almost making her stumble. “ _ Enough.  _ You will respect the Most Holy. _ ” _

Meredith’s gaze flickered to Cullen. Her eyes narrowed. He knew that look. Calculating, trying to figure out what was going on here. Finally she looked up at Cassandra. “How dare you tell me what to do. How do I know that’s really from the Divine?” 

The Seeker cut her off, poking her in the chest. “How dare I?  _ How dare I? _ How dare  _ you _ try to stop me? It is not your place to question why.” Cullen could see the side of her face now, the clenched jaw, the narrowed eyes; Cassandra Penteghast would make most cringe, but not Meredith. 

Meredith smiled. Then, she glanced at Cullen, her gaze traveling up and down his ragged body. He sagged against the two Seekers. 

“Fine then, Seeker. Take him. He’s nothing to me.” She laughed, eyes bright with her madness. “I hope you hang, Cullen.”

Then she whirled on her heels and left. 

The Seeker nodded to her men. “Let’s go.” Then she headed out of the cell without another word. 

“Easy, ser. Let us do the work.”

He nodded then let them, which was easy as he fainted.

* * *

There were some things a man didn’t ask, Cullen thought as he slowly emerged from unconsciousness. The first thought-- _ I’m no longer prisoner _ \--accompanied the realization he was lucky to be alive. He lay in a bed in a room bright with afternoon sun, a cool breeze making white curtains flap. His entire body ached, but what’d been a roar of agony now was tempered. He felt the tightness of a bandage around his injured thigh, his broken hand wore a splint. 

He was clean, which led to the second thought--the one he’d rather not have an answer for--was who did...this. Someone tended to him while he was unconscious. Someone bathed him, dressed him, put him to bed, took care of his wounds. He had no memory of how any of that occurred, how he even got here to this room. 

He raised one bandaged hand to his aching forehead, the sleeve of the blue nightshirt falling down to reveal his arm criss-crossed with healing cuts. He squeezed his eyes tight, and took a deep breath; the broken ribs, at least, were fully healed. He rubbed his forehead, willing away the dull thrum, the insistent humming in his limbs. 

_ Lyrium would stop it. _

Lyrium would bind him. 

_ No. _

The door snicked open. The Seeker herself walked in. 

“Good. You are awake.”

Cullen tried to raise himself but a sharp look from the Seeker had him falling--gratefully-back onto the pillows. His throat felt scratchy.  _ He _ felt scratchy, and quite nervous as she sat and stared at him for a moment. He noted then she held a bag which, as soon as he looked at it, she sat on the floor. It clinked. He knew what was in there.

_ Lyrium. _

“We have treated your wounds. You were stabbed three times.” At his surprise, she nodded. “Leg twice, and in your upper right arm. Perhaps the pain from your broken hand covered it. You had several cracked ribs, as you suspected. How many times were you beaten?”

“I don't know.”

She nodded. “You were there thirteen days. You have been off lyrium sixteen.”

His gaze dropped back to the bag. Three days since she’d saved him, then. “Sixteen days without lyrium.” He looked at her. “I have not been given any?”

“No. You refused it.”

He closed his eyes. “Refused?” Yet a brief, painful memory surfaced, his refusal more a flat-out scream as he fought to keep that blue poison from him. “Fought.”

“You remember.”

“I remember…” He hesitated. He remembered being terrified they would force it on him, terrified they’d take it away. He’d fought, scratched, bit… Embarrassment rocketed through him, his face hot with the horror of his behavior. “I’m sorry.”

“You were not yourself. I ordered Daniel to stop trying.”

He hesitated. “Did I hurt him?” 

“He is fine.”

He  _ had _ hurt him, then. “I will apologize.” Cullen opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “Sixteen days,” he murmured again. “Is the worst over?”

“We can’t know for certain.” She shifted in her chair, then stood and pulled it closer to him, leaving the bag behind. “You have decisions to make, Cullen.”

_ Not just about lyrium.  _ He let out a breath. “What choices do I have?”

“Several, and they must be made before tomorrow. You must leave as soon as you are able.” 

He tensed at that. “I am not safe here?”

“For now. You have been too ill to move.” She assessed him, her eyes piercing. For a moment she reminded him of Meredith. “But you must go soon.”

“Where.”

“Denerim. King Cailan’s court.”

He stilled at that.  _ Alistair.  _ “No. I-- I-- Maker’s breath. I mean why there? Why Denerim?”

“You are Ferelden, are you not?”

“Yes?”

“King Cailan requested you be brought to him. Tomorrow after lunch, you will be sent by train to Denerim. You will be safe under his guard until we need you to testify.” 

A flair of panic made him grip the bedcovers with his good hand. “Meredith will know I’ve gone there.”

“She has no power in Denerim.  _ Especially _ over the King.”

“Why is he helping?”

She actually shrugged, her gaze questioning. “Do you know?”

“I--” He thought of Alistair. Would he remember Cullen after all this time? Influence his brother? He supposed it was possible. It was also ridiculous. He was nothing to Alistair Theirin.  _ Prince _ Alistair. 

Wherever the Prince’s tormentors were now, Cullen hoped they were shamed by their treatment of him. Alistair was no Prince Nothing. Someday, he could be king. A smile teased his lips; Cassandra raised an eyebrow. He smoothed his face. “No. I don't, though you said before he was concerned about the red lyrium.”

“Gravely concerned. What you discovered is invaluable.”

“But you don't have it. What I found.”

She smiled. “Not yet. After you are safe in Denerim, we will proceed with the next step.”

Taking down Meredith.

He shifted in the bed. How he would travel all the way to Denerim in his present condition, he couldn’t fathom. 

He frowned. “You infer I am going alone. I am traveling without you?”

“I am needed elsewhere. You will be safer traveling alone.”

He saw the logic in that. “It will be difficult for me to blend in, like this.”

“You will be disguised. And, Meredith is not as clever as she thinks.” She looked amused. “We sent a decoy to Nevarra immediately after I retrieved you. Two of her Templars followed, and two of my people followed them, and stopped them. By the time my people let them go, your decoy vanished. She does not know where you are.”

He could see nothing but the blue sky through the window. “Where  _ am _ I now?”

“Cumberland.”

“Seeker--”

Her hard gaze turned to him. “You will call me Cassandra.” Her features softened. “Cullen. May I?”

“Of course.”

She leaned closer to him. He looked up at her; her eyes held the same fierceness he’d seen before. “I will help you stay off it, if you wish. I believe that is what you wish.”

He blinked at the turnabout. “I-- Lyrium.” He rubbed his cheek; his beard itched. It’d been years since he’d let it grow more than a handful of days. Perhaps it would be part of his disguise. “What do I want?” he asked, though he knew the answer. Suspected the Seeker--Cassandra--did too. “Take it out of here. Please.” 

She nodded, her eyes triumphant. She stood and swept up the bag, opened the door and handed it to someone outside. “Get rid of it.”

“Yes, Seeker. Shall I bring food?”

“Soup only. Give us another ten minutes.” She closed the door. “I am glad you made this decision. You can do this, Cullen. I believe in you.”

He laughed bitterly. “At least someone does.” 

Cassandra looked thoughtful for a moment. “What will you do after this is over?”

“After?” He was incredulous. “I have not thought about it.” He sighed. “I don't know.”

She assessed him for a moment longer, her gaze inscrutable. Finally, she said, “Work for me.”

He turned his head in surprise at that. “Become a Seeker?” Surely he misunderstood. 

“No.” She stood, walked over to the window and looked outside. “A new organization is forming. The situation with Meredith is only part of the problem, and we must be ready for what's to come.”

Cullen stilled, watching her. Then, he gingerly sat up and scooted back against the pillows. “What kind of organization.”

She still did not turn to him. “Military, to deal with expected uprisings.”

“What do you know, Cassandra?” he asked softly.

“Enough to know trouble is coming. Perhaps of a kind none of us can imagine.”

“That sounds worrisome. How many are involved?” Already his mind whirled with what he would need to know, need to organize. Perhaps he could get Rylen to join him. Having someone he trusted--his own choice--at his side was imperative.

“Not many, yet. Only six people know of its formation--the Divine and her left and right hands. My apprentices with us now, and King Cailan. And you.” 

Cullen blinked.  _ Left hand of the Divine... _ “Leliana?”

Now she did look at him. She nodded. “She remembers you. She recommends you as well.”

Kinloch Hold. She’d been with the Warden. They’d saved him, saw him at his worst. Leliana still thought favorably of him? After all he had done? After all his failures? Heat flushed him once again as he imagined what Leliana must’ve told the Seeker. Yet there was no censure in Cassandra’s eyes. 

As if she sensed his doubt, she said, “We need you, Cullen. Your skills are invaluable.”

A rare excitement fluttered in his chest. “What role would I play?”

“Commander.”

_ Commander. _ He stared down at his battered hands, the swollen fingers of his sword hand. “Surely you could do better. Any Templar would’ve been taught--”

“No. Any Templar is controlled by lyrium. You are not. You have been Knight-Captain of the Gallows for several years. You are dedicated, honest, and you care about people. Mages included.”

He looked up at that. “I have biases aplenty, Cassandra,” he said softly. He struggled at the surge of shame for all he had done to mages in the name of righteousness. “I have made mistakes. Terrible mistakes.”

“Yes, you have.”

His temper flared, but she was right. He acquiesced. 

Yet, he was no Meredith. The death and destruction she’d caused sickened him. Cassandra told him before, that fateful day in his office, that Meredith was not the only problem brewing. “Red lyrium,” he murmured. “You know something more.”

“Yes. But it will wait until after the trial. Are you interested?”

“And if I’m not?”

She shrugged, then smiled briefly. “I understand your parents were farmers.”

A laugh escaped him. “Yes, yes they were.” He sighed, leaned back against his pillows. He was very, very tired. “I would make a terrible farmer,” he admitted.

“Then you will join us, Commander?” The spark in her eyes could not be denied. 

“I will.” He hesitated, then said, “If you will promise me one thing.”

She appraised him for a long moment, then nodded. “I will do my best..”

He closed his eyes briefly, then took a deep breath. “I must stay off lyrium. I refuse to be led by a leash any longer.”

“It won’t be easy.”

“No, it won’t.” He raised his injured hand, stopping her. “Promise me, if ever I reach the point where it is too much, where it is clear I can’t handle my duties… ” 

His heart ached, and the very real fear of failure--of failing those he would lead in the future--nearly suffocated him. But Cassandra waited patiently, nodding slightly at him to go on. When he spoke again, he couldn’t keep that fear out of his voice. She had to know. She had to understand what this meant… and could mean in the future. 

“You must promise to let me step down. If I can’t do it myself, you must promise to  _ make _ me step down. Even if you have to throw me in a cell to do so.”

She huffed. “That will not be necessary.”

He pushed himself up, the lyrium still in his veins coursing hotly through him as if fighting to keep him in control.  _ He refused.  _ His heart raced, and he was breathing too fast but he had to make her understand. He could not do this alone. 

He needed help. He had no one else. 

“ _ Promise me. _ ” 

They locked gazes for a long moment, then she nodded. “I promise, Commander.”

He fell back against his pillows and closed his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered. 

A knock interrupted. The door opened, and one of the other Seekers entered with a tray. Something passed between him and Cassandra, and he nodded, then turned to Cullen. “Ready, Commander?” he said, setting the tray down on the table. 

_ Maker’s breath. _ “Yes, I suppose I am. Thank you.”

Cullen’s gaze locked with Cassandra’s, and she smiled, nodding at him once before they both left him to his repast.

  
  
  
  



	7. Alistair's Good Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five months have passed since Alistair landed in Harper's Ford, and things are going swimmingly. He is beating the odds, determined to win the challenge with his brother, and life is pretty damn good right now. He has great clients, he has friends--old and new--and his hard work on his dog walking business is paying off.
> 
> And yet, at the end of the day, there's something missing...and he isn't sure what to do about it. Or if he even can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a beast for many reasons (some related to work slaughtering me, some related to Alistair being naturally ornery when it is his turn to be written). I can write Cullen with my eyes closed and taking a nap but Mr. Theirin at times is extraordinarily bad and just doesn't come easily. (And Aurlana, I hear you giggling - stop that. You know what I mean!)
> 
> Speaking of Aurlana, she is the bestest of best betas and gave me tons of encouragement with this chapter. I needed it. Love you to bitty bits! Forever and ever!

Alistair stood in the middle of the cobbled street, popping his shiny new keys from one hand to the other. The skies were clear, the breeze gentle and warm. No rain clouds dared rain on _him_. It was going to be a perfect day. 

Harper’s Ford was slowly waking up. He saw Ser Hilliard--a retired Templar--scratching his considerable belly as he unlocked the door to his pastry shop, and down the street the lights in the enchantment shop flicked on. The owner was nicely skilled, but no Sandal. Alistair smiled, remembering the sweet boy who had, more than once, surprised them all.

A horse and uniformed rider clopped down the street; the guard waved at him cheerfully. “Morning, Prince Alistair! You’re up with the crows. Not up to mischief, I hope?” 

Alistair groaned quietly to himself. He’d long given up on convincing people to just call him Alistair, but at least he’d nixed the _Your Highnesses_. Mostly.

“Good morning, Guardswoman.” He grinned as she glanced over his head, her eyes widening in surprise. “No mischief, I promise. At least not yet.”

The Guardswoman nodded, tapping her helmet. “I’ll keep an eye on you, then.” She eyed him sternly, though her gaze flickered upward. “Or perhaps on _him_ would be best.” 

“Always a good plan.”

“Hey,” Krem called down from where he stood on top of the building. “I can hear you. I’m behaving.”

The Guardswoman grinned up at him. “Finished with your ‘volunteer’ work yet?”

Krem made a face. “One more day.”

“What did he do?” Alistair asked.

She pointed at Krem. “Ask _him._ ”

“No, that’s not necessary, Alistair,” Krem called down. 

Alistair grinned. “Have a good day, Guardswoman.”

She saluted, then directed her horse down the street, soon disappearing around the corner. He pulled out his pocket watch to check the time, his impatience returning. He’d been up for hours, getting an early start with Lana and Leliana who opened Coffee Magic at six. To think how, back in Denerim, he would waste the mornings as only a hung-over, bitter man could do, by sleeping late as possible, _maybe_ dragging himself out of his rooms by 2:00. Or 3:00. 

He was not proud of himself for that. 

He bounced on his toes, looking back over his shoulder before returning to gaze at the building before him.

_Where are they?_

“Krem!” he called out. “See them yet?”

“Not yet, my Prince!”

Alistair grumbled, checking his pocket watch again. It was almost eight o’clock. He’d told them, _be at the corner of Rolean and Dolperro at 8 sharp._ Okay, so there were still three more minutes to go, fine. Alistair ran one hand through his hair, glanced back behind himself again at the still-empty street before turning back once more.

He could hardly contain himself. 

The building in front of him was, to the ordinary eye, nothing fancy. To Alistair, though, it was _everything._ Finally, after four, almost five months of hard work and saving and planning, he was ready to open his new store. He couldn’t have done it without Lana and Leliana. They’d put up with him in their spare room, let him eat their food, pestered them about how to run a business successfully. 

This--his beautiful, very old, but new-to-him building, was a surprise. Neither had any idea what he’d been up to. He just hoped Lana wouldn’t be upset with him. 

“Prince Alistair!”

Alistair looked up at Krem in annoyance. “What is it?”

“They’re headed this way.”

Alistair turned around, stuffing the keys in his pocket. Over his shoulder he yelled, “Hide!”

“You got it, your Highness.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

He saw them, then. The building sat just to the left of the main street where it dissected into two parts. It was two blocks from Coffee Magic, almost at the edge of town. He was also, to his unmitigated joy, around the corner from the cheese shop. 

“Alistair? What’s going on?” Leliana called.

He grinned, bouncing on his toes, then unable to contain himself any longer, jogged toward them. “I have a surprise!”

Lana smiled at him, looking over his shoulder. He darted in front of her. “Nope, not yet!”

She laughed, shaking her head. “What have you been up to, Alistair?”

“You’ll see.” He grabbed her hand, then grabbed Leliana’s with the other. Lana squeezed his hand, her confusion clear, but she nodded.

Leliana eyed him, one eyebrow raised. 

He ignored that.

Since going to work for the Divine, Leliana was a bit...scarier than she used to be. But she was still Lels, and Lana’s wife, and Lana hadn’t changed a single bit over the years. 

“It’s a surprise. Come on.”

He dragged his two friends along, pausing only to wait for a horse and carriage to pass. 

“Good morning, Prince Alistair!” Ettrian called from in front of his flower shop as they passed by. He was elven, like Lana, and between him and his Tranquil, half-elven assistant, they made the most beautiful flower arrangements Alistair had ever seen. They also had a dog. A big, fluffy, ridiculous shaggy dog. Spot was one of Alistair’s favorite clients. “Is today the day?”

“Morning! Yes it is! Tell Spot I’ll be by soon.”

Ettrian grinned. “Will do. See you later!”

“Alistair? Lana asked, laughter in her voice. “What is going on?”

He stopped. They were in front of the building now. It was a stone building just like a third of the others in Harper’s Ford. A cheerful blue door--freshly painted, thanks to Krem’s help--was at the front with two steps down to the street. Either side were large blue-trimmed windows. He’d scrubbed the poured glass panes until they glimmered and now the morning’s sun caught them just right.

Across the top edge of the building was the covered sign. Later, a proper swinging sign would be added so those walking along the street could see it, but for now, this was good enough.

Who was he kidding. It was _perfect._ He just hoped Lana thought so too. 

He let go of their hands, and turned to face them. “I want to thank you both. Lana.” He nodded. “Leliana.” He nodded at her, too. They glanced at each other, saying nothing; he knew they could--and did--talk to each other silently. 

He wished he knew what they were both thinking. 

Maybe _what trouble has he got himself into now?_

Lana looked at him like she knew exactly what he was thinking. He cleared his throat. Speech. Right. 

“Anyway.” He smiled at Lana. “You both have done so much to help me, these past few months. Put up with me, fed me, let me stay with you. You taught me everything I needed to know to make this work.” He smiled. “Even got me most of my clients.” He wiped his hands on his breeches, glanced up at the sign. “I would already be back in Denerim, listening to endless complaints and forced to attend boring meetings if not for you. So, anyway, this is getting long, but um I guess--”

“Alistair,” Lana said softly. 

“Right.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “I wanted you--” he looked at Lana, hoping he hadn’t made a mistake, “to be the first to see. I hope it’s okay, if you don't like it I can change it--”

He heard a whoosh behind and above him. He looked up to see Krem ducking back. “You were supposed to wait for my signal!”

“You were taking too long!”

“Oh, Alistair.” Lana’s voice stopped him cold. 

He turned back to her, worry punching through him. Her hands were clasped to her chest, her eyes bright, and shimmering. 

“Is it okay? Are you mad?”

She laughed, the edge of a sob catching her. She shook her head; Leliana pulled her close. 

“It’s perfect. Just perfect.”

He took a deep breath, and went to her other side before turning to look up at the sign.

_Barkspawn Brigade Dog Walking Service._

“It’s a little wordy,” he said.

“No. It’s perfect.” Lana wiped at her eyes with her Coffee Magic apron. 

He glanced at Leliana; even she was smiling. She nodded at him. 

“I thought--I thought we all miss her,” he said softly. “I thought honoring her would… Is it okay?”

She nodded, then leaned her head against this shoulder as they looked up at the building. “It’s beautiful. It’s perfect. Thank you.” 

Krem came around the corner then, giving Alistair a thumb’s up. “See you later, Prince. Got to get to the cheese shop before Dorian turns me into a camembert, or worse.” 

“Limburger?” Alistair said.

Krem’s eyes widened. “Don't give him ideas, please. The sooner he finds someone to help him that isn’t me, the happier we’ll all be. Gotta go.”

He bowed to Lana and Leliana, then took off.

Alistair laughed. “Thanks for your help,” he called after him before turning back to his friends. “Would you like to see inside? It’s not much. But it has a showroom and an office and a little kitchen with a room in the back where I can sleep.”

Leliana dropped her arm from Lana’s. “You go on, I’ll see it later. I’d best go help Wynne handle the horde.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Leliana smiled over Lana’s head at Alistair. “Does this mean I get my library back?”

“Uh, yes, yes it does, of course,” he said, though a small wave of sadness at the thought of leaving their house hit him. He hadn’t thought to stay here full time but he could. He smiled brightly. “I know you’ll be glad to have privacy again.”

Leliana nodded, then headed briskly for the coffee shop.

“Alistair,” Lana murmured, laying her hand on his arm. “You’re not intrusive.”

He took a deep breath, then smiled down at his friend. He knew full well she could sense his sadness, but he shrugged. “Of course I am. I wouldn’t want me hanging around all the time, either.”

“ _Alistair._ ” She frowned at him and, as she always did when she wanted him to focus, grabbed him by the ears and made him look straight into her eyes. “You are not, and never have been an imposition. I have loved having you stay with us. Understand?”

“Don't make me cry, Lana. I really don't want to cry again today.”

She let him go. “Why did you cry?”

He turned and pointed up at the sign. “How could I not?”

She tucked her arm through his. “A good cry, I hope. Barkspawn will always live in our hearts. Now others will know of her, too.” She smiled, squeezing his arm. “I think somehow she’d like that.”

“Everyone already knows her! She’s more famous than I am.”

Lana laughed, and dragged him toward the front door. “I’m not so sure about that. Now come on, show me.” Then she smacked him on the arm. 

Alistair feinted away, though he didn’t pull away from her grip. “Hey, what was that for?”

“For keeping secrets from me. I can’t believe I had no idea.”

“Truly?” he said, opening the door so she could walk in first.

“Truly.” Then she stopped, and smiled as she walked into the room, her boots echoing on the wooden floors. She turned around, eyes wide in appreciation. Alistair leaned against the wall, arms folded over his chest.

“Pretty, isn’t it? You should’ve seen it before Krem helped me clean up. It was horrific.”

The wooden floors gleamed, as did the wooden countertop to the left of the entrance. It was L-shaped, and on top of it wooden boxes held various items meant for dogs and even cats. Toys, mostly. Pretty leashes and collars hung on a far wall, a rainbow of colors. Some even sparkled. Lana trailed her fingers down one, a leash made of gold material. With fake diamonds.

“It is amazing,” Lana said. “Can you imagine our Barkspawn wearing something like this?” 

“Are you serious?” He joined her. “She would have _loved_ this. And look! Remember the jars you were throwing out because they were too heavy for you?”

“Yes?”

He darted behind the counter, and lifted one up. It was huge, heavy even for him, even empty. He slid it on top of the counter, then opened the lid. “Biscuits!”

“Biscuits?”

He grinned. “Bull’s making special cheddar dog biscuits to sell here!”

Lana laughed. “Are you going to be able to stay away from them?”

“Lana, as if I’d eat dog food?”

She smiled, her pointed ears twitching when she was about to tease him. “I seem to remember a certain wrestling match, you and Barkspawn, over a steak bone--”

“It was mine first!”

She shook her head. “You two were both like puppies. Ridiculous.”

“She won,” he said, pouting. “Not that I minded.”

“Much.”

“You know me.”

She just smiled then headed toward the back. “Nice kitchen,” she said, then went into the back room. 

His bedroom now, he guessed. He carefully kept his sadness hidden; even at the best of times, and using all his blocking skills, sometimes Lana just knew anyway what he was thinking and feeling. 

“Alistair,” she chided. He cringed inwardly. “You need some furniture before you can stay here.”

“I-- I guess that’s a good idea. I don't want to annoy Leliana, though.”

She turned to him, raising one eyebrow. “You aren’t, I promise. She’s grateful you’ve been staying with me while she was away.”

“How long is she home for now?”

“A week.” Her expression clouded, grew guarded even. 

“What’s going on? Is everything okay?” Now that he was outside his brother’s circle, he didn’t have a pulse on the world. But though Lana nodded, he _saw._ “Lana--”

“I’m sorry, Alistair. I can’t.” She smiled. “Leliana-- Well. No.”

He pouted. “Divine business?”

“Yes. Now, enough of that. Let’s figure out this room. We will get you a bed, and a dresser.” She looked around. “A small table will fit here, with two chairs. Is there hot water?”

He sighed. “No. I sure will miss living with a mage,” he muttered. “Life’s so much easier.”

“I’m sure we can get an enchantment to take care of your needs. I think this is grand. It’s _perfect_.” She touched his arm. “I’m proud of you, you know.”

His face heated. “I haven’t done anything, really.” He looked down at his feet. The wood floor wasn’t really ready back here--still needed stripping and polishing--but that would have to wait. He was hyper-conscious of what little money he had and he dare not mess up now.

As he knew she would, Lana geared herself up to argue. “You know that is not true!” She poked him in the arm. “You have accomplished a great deal already. You already have...how many clients?”

“Thirteen.”

She nodded. “You’ve made enough to rent out this building, and start fixing it up. You have excellent plans for it.”

“I guess.” He brightened. “There’s a yard out back, too. It’s narrow but long and once I can get the fence fixed, dogs can go out there and play. I’ve already got Bull’s promise to help with that.” He grinned. “Or rather, he volunteered the Chargers. He has a bunch of old fencing he thinks would work.” He’d have to remind Bull of that. “All Bull wants for it is a cask of ale for the Chargers, which I’ve already bartered for by promising to help Oghren redo his bar’s floors next month.”

“See? This is why I’m proud of you. Ingenuity.”

“I--” She looked pointedly at him. He sighed and bowed. “Thank you.” He took a deep breath, looking around the barren room. “It’ll take some time, but I think it’ll be okay. I think I’ll make it.”

“Will you tell your brother?”

He took another deep breath. “Not-- No. He gave me a year. I’ve still got time.”

“How much is this costing you, Alistair?”

He turned away, rubbing the back of his neck. “I promise I did all the math. It’ll be okay. May be a little tight for a couple months but--” He shrugged, smiling. “I’m already walking so many dogs a day that I think I can probably hire someone to help out in the store a few hours.”

“And until then?”

“Krem volunteered.”

She raised her eyebrow. “I thought he’s helping Dorian until he can find permanent help?”

“He is. Before he goes back to the farm he said he could come by here a couple of hours and help out. At least until lambing season. Or whatever baby goat season is called.”

“Kid season?”

He grinned, then wrapped his arms around her, kissing her soundly on the top of her head. “I will be fine. Everything’s going to be good. I won’t fail, Lana. I promise.”

He simply could not allow that to happen, no matter what.

* * * 

The morning flew by as Alistair kept busy, running from walk to walk. There were four before noon, and another two scheduled for after lunch but not until later that afternoon which, thankfully, gave him time to go to his favorite place in Harper’s Ford: the Charger’s Cheese Company. 

Alistair peeked inside the window before going in, grinning to himself. Krem was behind the counter, wrapping cheese wedges, while a harried-looking Dorian darted between three different customers. 

Alistair opened the door, making the bells angle. He made a note to get some bells for his shop’s door. 

“Thank you, Dorian dear,” the elderly lady Dorian was helping said as he handed her a wax bag. “I know I will love it.”

“You’re welcome. Let me know what your husband thinks. I know he is especially fond of caraway seeds. In fact--” He darted out of sight for a moment, remerging with a small bag of crackers and gave it to her. “We only got a single box in, but perhaps he would like these.”

She headed for the front door, and of course, Alistair opened it for her, sweeping low. “Have a good day, Mrs. Piper.”

“Thank you, Prince Alistair,” she said, giving his arm a squeeze. “Always such a gentleman.”

“Did you still need help tilling your garden? I can do it late tomorrow morning.”

“That would be wonderful, yes. Then I’ll feed you lunch after.”

“That would be wonderful, Mrs. Piper. I’m sure I could handle a sandwich or two.” 

As Mrs. Piper left, Dorian acknowledged Alistair with a quick nod before turning to the next customer. Alistair shoved his hands in his pockets, though he stayed quiet, and bent down to look under the counter at the various tins of snack items. Dorian had the best snack supply in town--in addition to the best cheese he’d ever tasted--produced on his and his husband’s goat farm. 

“Alistair, I have your order ready.”

“Thanks.” He put two of the treats back--he needed to save money, after all, but his way was blocked by three young men, _maybe_ in their early twenties. They stood in a cluster by the cheese bread display whispering to each other. Alistair’s eyes narrowed as they knocked several of the items over. One of them--a red-faced lad with a shock of white hair--nudged his less colorful mate, then swaggered to the counter toDorian. 

“Hey _‘Vint,_ it’s our turn, not his.” 

“Yeah, we’ve been waiting forever here.”

Shit.

The smile Dorian wore did not reach his eyes. But ever-conscious of the simmering dislike that often ran beneath encounters with strangers to his shop, Dorian nodded graciously. 

“Of course, gentlemen. Forgive the oversight. How may I help you today? Perhaps some cheddar biscuits? I have a lovely new Orlesian wine cheese just in--”

“Wait,” the white-haired boy said, cutting Dorian off. “You sell _Orlesian_ cheese?”

“You tight with Orlesians or something?” the middle boy asked. 

“He’s a fucking ‘Vint, ain’t he? Orlesian ass-kisser, the whole lot of them.” 

The smallest of the three boys looked at Alistair; unlike the other two, he wore a sword at his side. His hand hovered over it, but he appeared more level-headed than the others.

Alistair sighed, setting his treat down in case he needed to draw his sword. He truly had no wish to cause Dorian any trouble in his shop, but feared it was going to happen anyway. His day had started out so nicely, too. All he wanted was some meat and cheese on sourdough, his usual lunch.

Dorian had a “ _are they serious_?” look on his face. 

Alistair eyed him, shaking his head; Dorian was careful not to use magic publicly, but there was no law against him doing so to defend his shop, either. 

The two other boys joined their annoying mate. Dorian’s gaze flickered to Alistair. Alistair nodded, and eased up behind the boys. To think, at their age, he was fighting darkspawn, living on the edge, never knowing where he’d sleep next, what he’d eat next, if he’d even live to see the next morning. Kids like these knew nothing of strife. 

“Problem, boys?” he said, nodding at Dorian. 

“Nothing I can’t handle. I’ll get your order in a minute.”

“No rush. I’ll wait right here until you’re done with these three.” 

The three boys had turned to face him; the white-haired boy’s eyes narrowed. But the smallest boy tugged on his mate’s sleeve. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Alistair stepped in front of them. “Surely you didn’t come into a cheese shop just to harass the owner because he’s from Tevinter?” 

“What’s it to you?”

Alistair grinned. “Well let’s see, this is my favorite shop, Dorian is my friend, I just want my lunch, and you have terrible manners.” 

He heard the front door open but didn’t take his eyes off the boy with the sword. 

The white-haired boy puffed up. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

The door opened further, bells on it jingling. The smallest boy’s eyes widened as a figure filled the doorway. _Overpowered_ the doorway. He heard Krem stifle a laugh from wherever he’d taken point. 

Bull peered down at the boys. “If _Prince_ Alistair can’t, then maybe you’d like to try me.” 

The white-haired boy was really stupid. “Prince of what? What’s a prince doing _here?_ In a cheese shop?” 

Alistair shrugged. “I like cheese?”

The smallest boy yelped. “Kavan, _shut up._ That’s really him! Prince Alistair.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Everyone knows Prince Alistair is a drunken joke.”

_Ouch._

Iron Bull caught his eye. “These boys giving you trouble?” He took a step toward them; all three skittered back. 

“We’re not doing anything,” the white-haired boy said.

Dorian sighed. “No, love, I think they were just leaving.” 

“Kavan please, let’s just go.”

The Iron Bull folded his arms over his chest and looked down at the boys, then stepped aside, nodding toward the door. “Listen to your friend. Just go.”

All three boys headed out but Alistair grabbed the middle one by the arm, stopping him. “What?” the boy squeaked, and Alistair held out his hand. 

The boy paled, glanced at Bull, who watched him with his single, baleful eye. The boy yanked a cookie tin out of his pocket and threw it on the ground, jerking out of Alistair’s grip and running after the others.

Alistair bent and picked it up; it was dented, sadly. Alistair loved these cookies. He snorted. The boy was stealing _Orlesian_ cookies. 

Dorian huffed as he walked around his counter. Alistair handed it to him. “Pretty sure that’s all they got.”

Dorian took the tin, turning it over to inspect it. “Little bastards. Can’t sell it like this. Thank you, my dear Alistair. I do have your order ready.” 

Bull walked up behind him, taking the tin from Dorian and handing it back to Alistair. He then tipped Dorian’s chin up and kissed him. “You all right?”

Dorian nodded. “I’m fine, Bull. Why are you here?”

“Can’t I come see my husband if I want to?” 

“I-- Of course. I can’t leave right now, though.”

“No need to leave. Thought we’d pop into the back for a second, let Krem handle the shop.” He pulled Dorian to his chest. “You can handle it for say thirty minutes, right Krem?”

“Whatever you need, Chief.”

“Bull,” Dorian murmured. “Not in front of royalty.”

The door opened again and several ladies walked in. Dorian’s gaze darted from them to Bull and he actually looked flustered. He grimaced. “Customers, darling…” Bull growled, pulling him in again for a quick kiss before letting Dorian go. Dorian smoothed his moustache, but he looked a lot less stressed than seconds before. “Alistair, come fetch your order.” He then bowed to the new customers, putting his shop owner face again. “Good morning, ladies… Bull can you help a moment?”

Bull sighed. As the door opened yet again. “Sure. Hold on.” He moved easily through the shop even though his presence made the single-room shop suddenly feel small. “Krem! Alistair’s order. And Alistair, it’s on the house today.”

“Here you go, boss. Headed back to the farm in a bit?”

“Yeah. You stay here though. Dorian needs you more than I do. Here you go.” He tossed Alistair’s bag to him. He grabbed it then stepped out of the way as yet another customer came in. He smiled as he watched Dorian slide back into host mode, and Bull bend down to talk to another customer to get his order. Krem darted about, grabbing cheeses and weighing portions, laughing at something Bull said, nodding at Dorian as he worked.

Alistair was forgotten.

The three men were in their element, truly, and Alistair felt a weird longing to be so in-tune with someone else like Dorian and Bull were. This was the first time he’d seen all three work together, and what had been chaotic moments before now hummed with calm efficiency. An odd spike of jealousy centered in Alistair’s chest. 

He let himself out of the store--unnoticed--and stood on the porch for a long moment, his bag clutched in his hand. What would it be like to have what Dorian and The Iron Bull had? And, Krem. The easy camaraderie between the three reminded him of the better days, back when they were fighting for their lives. He missed that. Yes, he still had Lana and Leliana. He’d made other friends too since he was here, but...he craved more. 

With a heavy sigh, he pulled his lunch out and took a bite as he walked down the steps. It was almost time for his next dog walk. It wouldn’t do to be mopey now. He passed his storefront. He stopped and looked up at it, and felt the hope rise in him again. He was going to make this work. He was going to show his brother he was responsible, and could take care of himself. 

It did not escape him that by so doing, he was proving something to himself, as well. That boy’s comment still stung. To many, Alistair Theirin was nothing but a drunk. Or worse. _Prince Nothing._

He tossed his empty bag into the trash, and headed for the flower shop.

* * *

The lunch helped. By the time Alistair stuck his head in the flower shop, his good mood was restored. “Spot? You ready?” Nothing. Must be in the back. Usually, Spot was waiting for him up front but there was no sign of anyone. “Ettrian?”

Nothing.

Everything looked fine; as usual, dozens of flowers crowded the front of the shop, most in beautiful crystal vases Alistair assumed cost a fortune, and others in a large cooling case with cold runes carved on it. Daisies, embrium, sunflowers, crystal grace, even arrangements with blood lotus and elfroot abounded. There were tiny sprigs for children, and one in-process, overly elaborate arrangement on Ettrian’s work table. It looked like something he’d see back home in Denerim. No, better--the castle’s florists were so boring. If he were king, he’d convince Ettrian and Feynriel to be his official florists. 

He heard a muffled bark. Curious, and though he’d not been in the back of the flower shop before, Alistair walked through the hallway to where he knew Feynriel did his work in the front part of a greenhouse. He peeked through the glass in the doorway and saw Feynriel working on a grafted plant, his blond hair pulled back into a single braid. Though no longer a mage, he favored mage robes to work in. 

“Pockets,” he’d explained to Alistair when he asked. 

As he stepped into the room, Spot lifted his head and thumped his tail. Feynriel did not acknowledge him, though Alistair expected that.

“Hey Feynriel, I’m here for Spot’s walk.”

Feynriel methodically wound a string around the graft, then cut it with his knife. “He is ready.”

“Great. Where’s Ettrian?”

“He is not here.”

Ah. Of course. “Okay. Here Spot, where is your leash?” He didn’t expect either Feynriel or Spot to answer so looked around, not seeing it. Usually Ettrian had the dog ready for him. 

Feynriel finished whatever it was he was doing to the plant, then stood and picked it up, walking past Alistair with his ever-stony face. He disappeared into the greenhouse. 

“Well. Now what, Spot?” The dog got up and stretched, wagging his furry tail. He was a buff colored mongrel with curly hair and not a single spot on him. He’d asked Feynriel once, “why Spot?” and Feynriel’s answer chilled him. “I remember I once wanted a dog named Spot. Ettrian got me a dog. He is Spot.” 

Alistair’s heart always broke a little, talking with Feynriel. He scratched behind the dog’s ears; guess they would have to wait for Ettrian.

Feynriel returned then, carrying a small rose bush in a heavy plant. He walked past Alistair and set it on his table. He took his knife and cut off one of the flowers, and gave it to Alistair. "Robust, but sweet." 

Alistair took the rose and smelled it. It smelled absolutely divine. “You’re right. It does smell robust and sweet. Is this a new one?” 

“It is new.”

Alistair looked at the rose. It was a deep red, velvety with darker red around the edges, and a blending into a fainter pink at the base. “It’s beautiful.”

Feynriel blinked at Alistair, his expressionless eyes impossible to decipher. "Prince Alistair." 

Alistair said, "What?" 

Feynriel did not blink. "Prince Alistair." He walked over to his ledger, took it out, and wrote something down. Alistair, curious, walked up behind him and looked over his shoulder as he wrote. To his surprise, Feynriel named the rose after him. 

"Robust but sweet? Is that how you see me?" 

“It is an acceptable name.” Feynriel closed the ledger and put it back on the shelf, then walked out. 

"Thank you!" Alistair said to Feynriel's retreating back. “I still need the leash!”

“I will get it for you.” Then he was gone. 

He sighed, then pulled out his pocket watch. He had one more walk and now would be late. He sniffed the rose and smiled; he could hardly be upset. Feynriel had actually done something nice. He didn’t know a Tranquil could do that, but then, Feynriel was the only Tranquil he knew. 

The door opened again and Ettrian walked in, leash in hand. “Sorry for the delay. I had to run an arrangement over to a customer.”

“That’s fine. Look what Feynriel did. He named a flower after me!”

Ettrian smiled. "He told me last night in bed that he was naming his new rose after you."

Alistair almost stumbled. “In bed? You mean you’re…”

Ettrian smiled serenely. “Of course. Did you not know?

“But… he’s Tranquil.”

“Indeed he is.” That was said with a low, decidedly-proud voice. “Tranquil are vastly misunderstood.” He winked at Alistair. “And vastly underestimated. Believe me, I made that mistake at first.” 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t-- Really, that was rude of me to be shocked. I just really didn’t know.”

“No worries, Prince Alistair.” A sad shadow passed across his eyes. “We were lovers before he was captured by a Templar and taken to the Gallows. I thought the intimate part of our lives was over, but after my brother and I rescued Feynriel, I learned otherwise.”

Feynriel walked in at that moment and, to Alistair’s shock--and though he still had the vacant look all Tranquil have, walked over to Ettrian and kissed him with smooth practice before returning to his work table, pulling out his stool, and settling down to work. 

“Even though he can’t get upset, he nonetheless seems to dislike when I am.” Ettrian looked at his partner fondly. “We do the best we can, you see. Lana hopes to find a cure for him someday--for all Tranquil--but I told her we can wait. She has more important tasks at hand.” He looked at Alistair pointedly. 

“What do you mean?” Surely Ettrian didn’t know-- “Oh. You do know about the Blight, then.”

“I do. I obtain ingredients Lana needs for her experiments. She is very determined, Prince Alistair. If anyone can be successful, it will be Lana.” He glanced at Feynriel. “You both deserve a long, happy life with your families.”

Alistair smiled, but he felt no joy in it. “Yeah, I guess.” He bent over and snapped on Spot’s leash. “We’d best get going.”

But Ettrian stopped him, a hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”

He took a deep breath, glancing from Ettrian to Feynriel where he worked silently on another graft. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just been a long day. We’ll be back in a little bit. Come on boy, let’s go.”

“Alistair.” Alistair stopped and turned back to Ettrian. He folded his hands and walked up to Alistair, glancing over his shoulder once at Feynriel. “Perhaps you have no need of my words, but had my brother not said the same to me once, I would’ve missed out on the best thing in my life. Don't be afraid.”

Alistair frowned. “What do you mean?” He wasn’t afraid. Except of failure, of course.

Ettrian looked down at his clasped hands before returning to gaze up at Alistair. “When I asked Feynriel, ‘Why name this new rose after Alistair?’ he reminded me that a rose is not just a symbol of love. It can also convey a deep regret, and deep sorrow. He understands you have a deep sadness within you, but believes you will have reason to share this rose,” he touched the rose in Alistair’s hand, “with someone special. ‘Someone he regrets,’ is what he told me.”

Alistair looked away, his face heating. “Well, that’s all nice and pretty but--” He shrugged. 

And yet, something tugged at him. _Someone._ He pushed that aside. Pushed _him_ aside. 

He was no longer a child. Magic of that kind didn’t exist for someone like him.

_Prince Nothing._

“All I ask is you keep your mind open. Feynriel is no longer a mage, and certainly no fortune teller, but I’ve found when he does choose to say something, it is well worth listening to.”

And because he needed to get out of there, because he was already running late, Alistair found himself saying, “I promise.”

* * *

That night as he lay alone and naked in his borrowed bed in the borrowed library, his body rapidly cooling, Alistair found himself thinking back to earlier that day. To Feynriel and his mysterious words to Ettrian. _To his lover_.

Even Feynriel, a Tranquil, was loved.

Feynriel was no longer a mage. And yet… Alistair reached for the rose he’d set on his bedside table. He lay back, twirling it in his fingers, the scant light from the moon shining through his window illuminating it. It had an ethereal beauty to it, its scent washing away everything else. It was, despite being carried around all day, absolutely as perfect as the moment it was cut.

 _Regret. Sorrow._ He had both of those. A remembered smile, shy and full of promise, wafted through his memory and took hold. A shiver ran through him that pulling the covers up over himself did not chase away. He reluctantly put the rose back on his bedside table, knowing by morning, it would be as wilted and near death as the love he’d once thought was his. 

This was the truth of his life, after all. He pulled the covers tight up around his neck, and lay there for hours, watching the rose until sleep took him at last. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is a historical AU, the following chapters, roughly set in the beginning of Thedas' Industrial Revolution yet during, mostly, the events of DA2. Sort of. There's some twisty stuff going on (and Dorian and The Iron Bull just, well, they just had to be in it because my brain said so). Because magic exists, and runes, the timeline for technology does not mirror our own; there are automobiles (for the wealthy), there are trains, there are telegraphs, there is gas lighting and running water and other luxuries for those who can afford it. 
> 
> There are no guns, rifles, other firearms, though the black powder in DA2 does of course exist. There are Circles, and Templars, slavery exists in Tevinter, but King Cailan lived through Loghain's treachery, and after Kinloch Hold, worked to make lives better for mages in his country. Still the Mage Rebellion happens, the Conclave is in the distant future, and Cullen follows the Templar path, Alistair the Grey Warden's, until they don't.


End file.
